I 


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OR, 


T  II E  M  O  T 11 E 11  ’  S  T  U  1  A  L . 


“Through  suffering  and  sorrow  thou  hast  passed, 
To  show  us  what  a  woman  true  may  be.” 


FOURTH  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

L.  P.  CROWN  &  CO.,  61  CORNHJLL. 

PHILADELPHIA  : 

J.  W.  BRADLEY.  IS  NORTH  FOURTH  STREET. 

1  85  6. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 
L  .  P  .  CROWN  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachv  setts. 


♦ 


Stereotyped  by 
HOBART  &  ROBBINS, 

Now  England  Type  and  Stereotype  Foundery, 


£|3 

/v ITS  31  a. 


# 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION. 


The  unexpected  favor  with  which  “  Anna  Clayton  ”  has  been 
received  by  the  public,  requiring  another  and  larger  edition  within 
a  few  hours  from  its  first  appearance,  shows  that 11  Real  Life  ” 
has  not  yet  lost  its  charms,  amidst  the  wild  vagaries  of  fiction  and 
'romance. 

^  The  principal  characters  and  scenes  in  this  “  tale  ”  are  drawn 

froimdife.  Imagination  cannot  picture  deeper  shades  of  sadness, 

higher  or  more  exquisite  joys,  stranger  labyrinthine  mazes,  than 

‘  truth  has  woven  for  us  in  “  The  Mother’s  Trial.” 

- 

Here,  in  the  heart  of  New  England,  lived,  and,  for  aught  we 
know,  still  live,  our  prototypes.  The  same  blighting  influences 
are  even  now  insidiously  creeping  around  our  firesides  ;  and,  while 
we  disclaim  either  bitterness  or  prejudice  toward  those  who  are 
blindly  led,  we  would  raise  the  finger  of  warning  against  the  lead¬ 
ers  in  this  “  Mystery  of  Iniquity.” 

Boston,  May  7,  1855. 

* 

H 

t  .  ^ 

<9 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

- “  If  there  be  a  human  tear 

From  passion’s  dross  refined  and  clear, 

’T  is  that  by  loving  father  shed 
Upon  a  duteous  daughter’s  head.” 

Scott’s  “  Lady  of  the  Lake.” 

Before  a  cheerful,  crackling  fire  (for  those  were  not  the 
days  of  Lehigh),  in  the  family-room  of  an  old  mansion,  sat, 
or  rather  leaned,  one  whose  silvery  locks  and  careworn  feat¬ 
ures  denoted  that  he  had  fulfilled  the  “  three-score  years  and 
ten  ”  allotted  to  man.  Long  and  vacantly  he  gazed,  but  not 
at  the  gracefully-curling  smoke  that  wreathed  itself  into  fan¬ 
tastic  forms,  and  ascended  to  mingle  with  the  pure  air  of 
heaven,  leaving  a  long  train  to  follow  at  leisure ;  nor  at  the 
glowing  embers  beneath,  bright  and  genial  though  their  influ¬ 
ence  might  be ;  —  no,  the  gaze  of  the  old  man  bent  not  upon 
any  outward  object ;  his  communings  were  deep  within  the 
spirit’s  shrine,  and  there,  spread  before  his  mental  vision  in 
almost  startling  reality,  were  the  various  scenes  through 
which  he  had  passed ;  the  many  years  he  had  ministered  in 
1* 


G 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


spiritual  things  to  the  flock  that  now  seemed  so  dear  to  him ; 
the  loved  ones  he  had  laid  to  rest  in  the  green  church¬ 
yard  ;  the  blessings  that  had  been  showered  upon  him  in  the 
midst  of  griefs.  Brightest  of  all  these  blessings,  stole  softly 
and  sweetly  the  image  of  one  who,  for  nineteen  years,  had 
been  enshrined  within  his  heart,  —  worshipped,  next  only  to 
his  God ;  whose  first  breath  came  freighted  with  the  parting 
blessing  of  a  sainted  mother,  and  to  whom,  with  his  bound¬ 
less  wealth  of  love  and  tender  care,  ever  pouring  its  exhaust¬ 
less  treasures  at  her  feet,  he  had  been  father,  mother,  compan¬ 
ion  !  Now  his  head  leaned  more  heavily  upon  his  breast, 
and  gentle,  sorrowful  tears  were  coursing  down  his  furrowed 
cheek,  when  a  merry,  joyous,  silvery  laugh  rang  through  the 
room,  as,  with  a  light  bound,  a  fair  girl  sprang  into  his  arms. 

“  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  my  dear  father  !  ”  said  she, 
gayly  ;  “here  you  sit,  moping  over  the  fire,  just  where  I  left 
you  nearly  an  hour  ago,  while  I  have  been  to  see  Aunt 
Susie,  and  poor  Mrs.  Rowley,  who  is  so  sick,  and  black  Cato, 
and  sweet,  patient  Ellen  Leslie,  and  ”  —  but  here  the  tearful 
eyes  which  met  her  own  checked  her  utterance ;  and,  impul¬ 
sively  clasping  her  arms  about  his  neck,  her  fair  ringlets 
mingling  with  his  snowy  locks,  her  tears  ffell  with  almost 
childish  exuberance. 

“My  child! — my  darling,  this  must  not  be! — why 
should  I  grieve  you  ?  ” —  and,  with  a  mighty  effort  stilling  the 
throbs  of  his  own  swelling  heart,  he  exclaimed,  in  attempted 
cheerfulness,  “  Why,  wThat  would  Herbert  say,  should  he  see 
his  Bessie,  the  prize  for  which  he  has  so  long  and  so  honorably 
striven,  and  which  he  thought  was  to  be  conferred  upon  him 
with  deep  thankfulness  that  the  winner  was  worthy  of  that 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


7 


which  ho  had  so  earnestly  sought,  —  how  would  he  feel  should 
lie  see  her  now  in  tears,  on  the  very  eve  of  that  consummation 
which  she  often  assured  him  would  only  perfect  her  happi¬ 
ness  !  Nay,  nay,  do  not  speak  now ;  I  know  all  your  heart 
would  dictate;  I  know  you  w'ould  give  up  even  Herbert, 
dear  as  he  is  to  you,  rather  than  cause  your  old  father’s  heart 
to  bleed,  as  you  just  now  felt  that  it  did.  Bless  you,  darling, 
for  that  devotion,  and  may  God  bless  you,”  —  and  here  the 
trembling  hands  and  lips  were  raised  to  heaven,  —  “  as  I  now 
do,  for  all  the  light,  life  and  joy,  with  which  you  have  filled 
this  otherwise  desolate  heart !  Such  a  treasure  as  you  have 
been  to  me,  may  you  prove  to  him  who  has  your  pure  young 
lni^rt  in  his  keeping  !  ” 

“  But,  father,  listen  to  me ;  ”  and,  as  she  spoke,  her  whole 
frame  quivering  with  emotion,  her  slight  figure  drawn  up 
with  unwonted  decision,  she  seemed  to  shadow  forth  that 
blending  of  rare  loveliness  and  gentleness  with  an  unwavering 
obedience  to  the  right  which  were  so  fully  perfected  in  her 
after  life ;  —  “  listen,  and  believe  me  when  I  say  that, 
deeply  and  truly  as  I  love  Herbert,  —  and  how  deeply  and 
truly  none  save  my  own  soul  can  know,  —  there  is  yet  a 
shrine  in  my  heart  which  not  even  his  love  can  approach, 
—  where  only  is  the  image  of  one  who  has  been  to  me 
father,  mother,  brother,  sister ;  and  can  I  see  the  shadow  of 
such  great  grief  falling  upon  my  revered  father’s  heart,  and 
not  declare,  as  I  now  do,  that  —  ” 

“  Stay  that  declaration,  my  dear  child,  if  you  would  not 
distress  me  still  more !  There  is  a  shadow  falling  on  my 
heart,  but  ’t  is  the  shadow  of  an  angel,  beckoning  me  on  to  joys 
untasted,  to  glories  unseen,  to  sweet  communings  with  her 


8 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


who  has  long  been  waiting  in  the  spirit-land ;  and  the  last 
wish  of  my  heart  will  be  gratified,  as  I  to-morrow  give  to 
Herbert  the  greatest  boon  this  earth  affords,  —  a  cheerful, 
loving,  truthful  wife.” 

“  Plase  yer  honor,  Misther  May,  an’  shure  there ’s  a  letther 
for  yces,  and  the  man  will  be  afther  waiting  for  an  answer,” 
said  Bridget,  thrusting  her  head  in  at  the  door ;  “  but,  bedad, 
yees  all  in  the  dark,  shure.” 

Before  she  had  done  speaking,  Bessie,  with  noiseless  step, 
had  lighted  the  social  astral,  and  drawn  her  father’s  chair 
near  the  table,  where  she  stood,  impatiently  waiting  for  him 
to  adjust  his  glasses,  take  a  deliberate  survey  of  the  outside, 
and  then  as  deliberately  unfold  the  letter,  which  to  her  qui#k 
and  unerring  instinct  was  in  some  way  connected  with  him 
who  on  the  morrow  would  lead  her  to  the  altar. 

“  Bessie,  dear,”  said  Mr.  May,  looking  up  with  a  quiet 
smile,  as  he  handed  her  the  missive,  “  here  is  an  ordeal  for 
you  to  pass,  which,  if  I  mistake  not,  will  be  rather  trying  to 
one  so  sensitive  and  delicate.  What  say  you,  —  for  it  is  a 
matter  you  alone  must  decide,  —  shall  the  good  people  of 
Asheville  satisfy  their  curiosity  by  looking  at  the  sweet  face 
of  their  minister’s  wife  as  she  first  takes  upon  herself  those 
vows ;  or,  as  they  express  it,  ‘  show  their  respect  for  their 
beloved  pastor,  the  Bev.  Herbert  Lindsey,  by  escorting  him 
and  his  bride  to  their  future  home  ’  ?  ’T  will  be  a  trial,  love, 
but  a  small  one,  I  fear,  compared  with  many  which  must  fol¬ 
low,  and  from  which  a  father’s  love  would  fain  shield  you,  but 
cannot.  Speak,  darling,  and  tell  me  what  answer  to  give  to 
this  request.” 

“What  would  Herbert  say,  father?”  gently  replied  she, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


9 


while  a  shade  of  anxiety  and  disappointment  passed  over  her 
face. 

“  Spoken  like  my  own  Bessie,  ever  mindful  of  the  wishes 
of  those  she  loves,  and  ever  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  for 
them.  Doubtless  he  would  like  to  gratify  his  people,  but 
not  if  it  must  wound  the  feelings  of  his  gentle  bride.” 

“  Then,  father,”  said  she,  with  an  arch  smile,  “  tell  them 
Mr.  May  and  his  daughter,  grateful  for  their  condescension, 
will  be  most  happy  to  receive  them.”  - 

And  so  it  was  settled  that  in  the  church  where  her  loved 
voice  had  first  lisped  the  Saviour’s  name,  and  had  since  min¬ 
gled  its  sweetness  in  their  simple,  heart-felt  melodies,  that 
voice  should  once  more  be  heard,  uttering  the  vows  which 
severed  her  from  her  childhood’s  home  forever. 


“  0,  hush  the  song,  and  let  her  tears 
Flow  to  the  dream  of  her  early  years  : 

Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 

When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father’s  hall  ; 

She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new  — 

She  parts  from  love  which  hath  still  been  true.” 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

Brightly  the  morning  sun  shone  over  the  village  of  B - , 

and  sweetly  the  birds  sang,  —  never  more  sweetly,  thought 
Bessie,  as  she,  at  early  dawn,  with  step  light,  yet  pensive, 
thought  sweet,  yet  sad,  sought  her  own  little  nook  in  the  gar¬ 
den.  Sacred  be  thy  communings,  sweet  maiden  !  we  will  not 
venture  within  this  consecrated  spot,  but  breathe  for  thee  the 
prayer  that  thou  mayest  come  forth  strengthened  for  all  thy 
life’s  trials ;  and  above  all  for  the  great  sorrow  that  even  now 
is  hovering  over  thee,  and  though  on  thy  happy  bridal-day, 
cannot  be  averted  from  thee. 

“0,  Nancy,  Miss  Nancy,  do  help  me  put  on  this  white 
dress!”  said  Nelly  Lee,  bursting  into  Miss  Nancy  Ellis’  room, 
to  her  utter  dismay  and  confusion,  as  the  secrets  of  her  toilet 
were  thus  suddenly  exposed  to  the  rude  gaze  of  the  mischiev¬ 
ous  girl,  —  “  I  took  it  out  of  my  drawer  this  morning,  where  I 
laid  it  last  fall,  and  Kitty  has  ironed  it  so  nice  and  now  I 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


11 


can’t  get  it  on;  and  ’t is  so  vexing,  too,  for  all  of  us  girls 
want  to  dress  just  alike,  and  carry  flowers  to  strew  in  the 
aisle  for  the  bride  to  walk  on ;  and  they  are  gathering  them 
now,  and  I ’m  afraid  I  shall  bo  late ;  do  help  me,  that ’s  a 
dear,  good  Miss  Nancy !  ”  said  the  now  breathless  girl,  coax- 
ingly  throwing  her  arms  about  her. 

“  I ’m  sure  I  don’t  know  why  there  should  be  such  a  fuss, 
just  because  Miss  Bessie  May  has  taken  it  into  her  head  to 
get  married !  ”  said  Nancy,  tartly  ;  “  and  then,  too,  to  think 
of  her  boldness  in  going  to  the  church, — just  as  if  she  was 
afraid  there  would  n’t  be  folks  enough  to  see  her  at  home  !  I 
admire  modesty,”  said  she,  complacently  viewing  her  hard 
features  in  the  glass ;  —  “but  come  here,  child,  and  I  ’ll  help 
you ;  ”  and,  with  much  straining,  pulling,  and  a  little  rending, 
—  for,  unconsciously  to  herself,  little  Nelly’s  form  was  fast 
rounding  and  developing  to  its  perfection,  —  the  dress  was 
made  to  stay  on  —  fit  it  certainly  did  not.  But  Nelly  still 
lingered,  though  she  was  just  now  in  such  haste,  and,  looking 
sadly  at  Miss  Nancy, 

“  I  didn’t  know,”  said  she,  “  that  you  hated  our  dear  Bes¬ 
sie  ;  I  thought  everybody  loved  her.” 

“  Well,  well,  child,  you  are  too  young  to  understand  these 
things ;  ”  and,  having  no  older  listener,  she  continued,  partly 
to  her  and  partly  to  herself,  —  “  to  think  that  she  should  drag 
her  old  father  out  just  to  make  a  display  of  herself,  when,  I 
venture  to  say,  he  would  prefer  a  quiet  time  at  home !  ” 

“  That  an’t  true!  ”  —  and  Nelly  stamped  her  little  foot  vio¬ 
lently, —  “for  Bridget,  who  lives  at  Mr.  May’s,  was  over  to 
our  house  last  night,  and  said  that  a  man  brought  a  letter, 
and  she  carried  it  to  Mr.  May,  and  he  was  so  busy-like  that 


12 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


he  didn’t  know  she  was  in  the  room,  and  ’twas  all  about  her 
}Toung  mistress  being  married  in  church ;  and  Bessie  cried 
about  it,  but  said  she  would  do  as  her  father  bid ;  so,  Miss 
Nancy,”  —  and  the  little  face  was  full  of  triumph,  —  “what 
do  you  think  now  ?  ” 

“Think,  —  why,  I  think  just  as  I  always  did,  that  she’s 
a  little  upstart,  and  an’t  no  better ’n  she  ought  to  be,  neither; 
and  I  shall  just  give  some  o’  them  folks  that  come  from  his 
place  a  piece  of  my  mind  about  it,  too  !  ” 

This  was  rather  too  much  for  Nelly;  and,  her  bosom  heav¬ 
ing  with  indignation  and  wrath,  she  seized  a  saucer  of  paint 
and  a  long  row  of  pearly-white  teeth  that  lay  upon  the  table, 
and,  dashing  them  into  a  thousand  pieces  upon  the  floor,  she 
exclaimed,  “And  I  shall  tell  them,  Miss  Nancy,  that  you 
could  n’t  come  to  the  wedding  because  a  little  girl  threw  your 
teeth  on  the  floor  and  broke  them,  and  spilt  all  your  paint !  ” 
and  peal  after  peal  of  merry  laughter  rang  through  the  house 
as  she  escaped  Miss  Nancy’s  indignation,  the  thought  of  her 
woful  plight  disarming  all  her  childish  anger. 

Poor  Miss  Nancy !  her  wrath  knew  no  bounds.  How  could 
she  now  carry  out  her  plan  of  visiting  this,  that  and  the  other 
one,  and  diffusing  a  little  of  her  bitterness  of  spirit  among 
them  all?  And  the  wedding,  too,  where  she  had  expected  to 
shine  so  conspicuously  in  a  certain  way,  —  what  can  she  do  ? 
And  to  think  of  that  little  mischievous  madcap  being  the 
cause  of  it  all !  “  0,  what  torments  children  are*!  ”  said  she, 

as,  quickly  fastening  the  door,  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  gave  way  to  a  violent  fit  of  weeping.  —  Who  shall 
say  they  were  not,  to  her  ? 

Never  before  was  there  heard  such  a  peal  as  now  burst 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


13 


forth  from  the  church-bell.  Can  that  be  old  John  the  sex¬ 
ton?  If  so,  he  must  certainly  be  inspired;  for  so  plainly  do 
its  deep  tones  speak  to  every  heart,  that,  at  its  bidding,  old 
and  young,  rich  and  poor,  all  bend  their  steps  towards  its 
open  portals.  And  now  the  village-green  seems  peopled  with 
fairies,  as  from  behind  every  bush,  from  every  nook  and  cor¬ 
ner,  there  springs  forth  what  would  seem  to  be  a  wilderness 
of  flowers,  were  it  not  that  here  and  there  a  roguish  eye  would 
peep  from  under  a  bunch  of  roses,  or  a  stray  curl  or  dimpled 
arm  proclaim  some  humanity  in  that  moving  garden. 

The  little  church  had  been  transformed  by  these  fairies  into 
a  perfect  bower  of  roses  and  evergreens  ;  and,  as  they  stood 
with  joyous  faces  and  beaming  eyes,  showering  with  fragrance 
the  pathway  to  the  altar,  what  wonder  that  the  venerable 
man  should  pause  to  call  down  blessings  on  their  young 
hearts ;  or  that  the  tall,  manly  form,  which  supported  the 
trembling  bride,  bowed  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  this 
simple,  characteristic  offering  of  innocence  ! 

Long  would  we  linger  around  that  altar ;  for,  in  the  deep, 
tremulous  voice  of  him  who  resigns  his  last,  cherished  treasure 
to  another’s  keeping,  are  tones  not  of  earth,  and  the  melody 
which  wells  forth  from  every  heart  in  the  bridal  chorus  is 
swelled  by  the  sweeter  strains  of  an  angel  band.  She,  who 
has  so  long  hovered  around  the  loved  ones  with  gentle,  heav¬ 
enly  ministrations,  is  even  now  permitted  to  breathe  words  of 
peace  and  joy  into  the  lone  man’s  soul,  and,  with  spotless  robe 
and  crown  in  view,  to  beckon  him  away  to  his  treasures  in 
heaven.  As  with  outstretched  arms  and  streaming  eyes  the 
father  and  pastor  invokes  God’s  blessing  upon  his  flock,  an 
invisible  presence  seems  to  fill  every  heart ;  even  the  little 

2 


14 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


ones  look  upon  him  with  awe,  and  pass  him  with  unwonted 
reverence.  Amid  smiles  and  tears,  congratulations  and  mur- 
murings,  blessings  from  the  old  and  good  wishes  from  all,  the 
gentle,  blushing  bride  was  proudly  led  forth  by  the  now  happy 
husband.  Many  a  kindly  word  was  spoken,  many  a  token 
of  affection  pressed  into  her  hand,  ere  she  was  permitted  to 
depart  to  the  home  and  people  which  were  henceforth  to  be 
hers. 

“  0,  how  we  shall  miss  her  !  ”  sobbed  Miss  Nancy  Ellis,  as, 
with  her  colorless  face  bound  in  cotton,  she  stretched  forth 
her  long  neck  to  gaze  after  the  departing  carriages. 

“Why,  Miss  Nancy,”  said  little  Nelly,  who  had  been  stand¬ 
ing  unobserved  near  her,  “  why,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  ”  and, 
turning  away  in  disgust,  she  gathered  a  little  group  about  her, 
and  in  a  low  voice,  interrupted  with  constant  bursts  of  merri¬ 
ment  or  indignation,  she  told  the  mishaps  of  the  morning,  as 
with  frequent  and  meaning  gestures  she  pointed  to  the  face 
covered  up  for  pretended  ague.  It  was  well  for  Nelly  that 
she  deferred  her  story  till  now ;  for,  so  dangerous  was  their 
glee,  —  none  the  less  boisterous  for  the  woful  aspect  of  Miss 
Nancy  before  them,  —  that  many  an  outgrown  dress,  beside 
hers,  bore  testimony  to  its  effect. 


*S 


CHAPTER  III. 


“  What  a  world  were  this, 

How  unendurable  its  weight,  if  they 

Whom  death  hath  sundered  did  not  moot  again  !  ” 

Southey. 

The  church,  just  left  vacant  and  lonely  by  the  departure 
of  the  bridal  party,  and  within  which  still  lingered  sweet 
influences  of  visible  and  invisible  spirits,  —  the  unwithered 
and  blending  fragrance  of  flowers  betraying  the  nearness  of 
the  former,  and  the  hush  and  thrill  of  spirit  ever  attending 
the  overshadowing  presence  of  the  latter,  —  was  one  of  those 
venerable  structures  so  often  met  with  in  New  England  till 
the  hand  of  improvement,  or,  as  we  should  rather  say,  of 
change,  swept  them  from  the  earth,  but  not  from  the  cherished 
remembrance  of  many  who  worshipped  within  their  ancient 
walls.  How  well  do  we  remember  the  veneration  and  awe 
with  which  we  (child  as  we  were)  gazed  up  into  the  enclosure 
midway,  we  thought,  between  heaven  and  earth,  as  though 
not  of  either,  where  stood  the  inspired  man  of  God  in  flowing 
robes ;  how  often  have  we  likened  it,  in  our  youthful  imagin¬ 
ation,  to  the  scenes  of  the  judgment  day,  when  he  who  was  to 
pronounce  the  doom  of  all  should  occupy  that  sacred  desk, 
while  Abraham,  and  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  with  other  glorified 


16 


\ 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

beings  whose  seats  in  heaven  were  already  secured,  should  sit 
in  solemn  state  where  sat  those  six  deacons,  with  faces  as 
devout  and  serious  as  though  the  fate  of  worlds  rested  upon 
them !  And  then  those  stately  square  pews,  with  innumerable 
little  alleys  as  pathways  to  them,  —  how  expressive  of  the 
gathering  together  of  each  family  in  its  exclusively  social 
relations  before  the  final  separation  !  I  confess  my  youthful 
fancies  have  often  led  me  through  many  such  imaginary  scenes 
of  weal  and  woe,  while  my  honest,  sober-minded  parents  were 
congratulating  themselves  that  one,  at  least,  of  their  number, 
was  an  attentive  listener  to  the  holy  man’s  words. 

The  ministerial  office  of  those  days  was  far  from  being  the 
“  come  and  go  ”  affair  of  the  present  age.  Then  it  was 
choosing  a  home  for  life,  and  on  both  sides  was  the  union  one 
which  only  death  should  dissolve.  Consequently  the  settle¬ 
ment  of  a  minister  was  an  era  long  to  be  remembered,  and 
seldom  witnessed  more  than  once  by  the  same  generation. 

This  was  true  of  the  good  people  of  B - ;  for  only  a  few 

among  the  aged  could  recall  the  time  when  Mr.  May  came 
among  them,  in  all  his  youthful  ardor,  and,  after  a  mutually 
agreeable  acquaintance,  was  ordained  as  their  future  spiritual 
teacher,  amid  the  gaze  of  multitudes  from  far  and  near.  The 
mingled  love  and  reverence  with  which  they  still  regarded 
him  testified  alike  to  his  faithful  fulfilment  of  those  solemn 
rows,  and  to  their  docility  and  love  of  all  things  good.  They 
had  borne  his  sorrows  on  their  hearts  when  he  laid  his  dearly- 
loved  wife  in  their  green  church-yard ;  and  they  had  watched 
with  joy  the  gradually  unfolding  and  developing  beauties  of 
his  bud  of  promise,  the  lovely  Bessie.  What  wonder,  then, 
that  the  transplanting  of  this  flower  to  another  garden  should 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


17 


have  been  a  great  event  in  their  history,  or  that  the  day 
chosen  for  her  nuptials  should,  by  common  consent,  have  been 
enjoyed  as  a  holiday  for  all?  « 

As  the  bridal  cortege  wound  slowly  from  their  sight,  groups 
of  men,  women  and  children,  were  eagerly  discussing  the  many 
incidents  always  attendant  upon  a  country  wedding,  while 
here  and  there  were  busy  housewives,  intent  on  their  prepara¬ 
tions  for  a  “  bit  o’  gossip  and  a  cup  o’  tea  ”  with  their  neigh¬ 
bors.  Thus  the  day  wore  on  to  its  close,  when,  as  if  by 
preconcertion,  there  was  a  general  gathering  on  the  village 
green,  partly  to  discuss  the  exhaustless  subject  of  the  morning’s 
occurrence,  and  also  to  mingle  their  sympathies  with  their 
beloved  pastor,  who,  they  doubted  not,  would  come  forth  to 
meet  them,  and  whose  house  was  now  indeed  made  desolate. 
Expectant  eyes  were  often  turned  towards  the  “  parsonage,” 
but  none  appeared  in  answer  to  their  silent  call,  till  at  length 
the  porch  door  opened,  and  Bridget,  the  faithful  servant, 
came  slowly  towards  them,  to  see  if  her  master  had  been  well 
cared  for.  Great  was  her  consternation  when  informed  that 
he  had  not  been  seen  by  any  one  since  the  services  of  the 
morning. 

“Alack  a  day,  and  isn’t  it  meself  as  feared  what’s 
coming !  ”  cried  she ;  “  and  shure  is  n’t  it  me  own  eyes  as  saw 
him  go  to  the  grave  of  his  leddy,  yonder,  last  night  aboot 
twelve !  and  was  n’t  I  a  trimblin’  and  shiverin’  when  I  see 
him  doun  on  his  knees,  an’  the  grass  all  damp  and  cowld  at  his 
feet !  And,  the  blissid  Virgin  save  me  !  jist  as  I  stipt  out  to 
warn  him,  may  be-  -did  n’t  I  see  the  leddy  herself  risin’  out 
o’  the  ground  and  kneclin’  beside  him!  Och !  an’  isn’t  a 
beryin,  it  betokens,  sich  as  the  likes  o’  mo  would  niver  see 

2* 


18 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


agin  ?  ”  And,  wringing  her  hands,  poor  Biddy  seemed  beside 
herself  with  grief  and  fright.  How  much  influence  her  story, 
evidently  a  mixture  of  truth  and  imagination,  had  with  her 
hearers,  could  scarcely  be  estimated ;  but  of  one  thing  they 
were  assured,  which  sufficiently  alarmed  them,  without  refer¬ 
ence  to  the  supernatural,  —  their  pastor  had  not  been  seen 
by  any  one  since  his  morning’s  triaj.  Old  John  the  sexton 
now  remembered  that  when  Mr.  May  parted  with  the  bride 
at  the  carriage  he  went  back  into  the  church  and  shut  the 
door ;  but,  as  he  thought,  he  did  it  that  he  might  gain  his  own 
house  by  a  more  private  way.  After  a  moment’s  consultation, 
a  few  of  the  older  ones  approached  the  church,  and,  noiselessly 
unclosing  the  door,  gazed  with  speechless  reverence  upon  the 
scene  before  them.  Seated  upon  the  same  spot  where  he  had 
given  away  his  last  treasure,  the  long,  whitened  locks  flowing 
upon  his  shoulders,  his  head  resting  upon  the  desk  in  front,  so 
absorbed,  apparently,  in  deep  xevery  that  he  had  taken  no 
note  of  the  advancing  shades  of  evening,  the  old  man  had 
passed  his  first  solitary  day.  Was  he  not  surrounded  by 
ministering  spirits,  all  eager  to  pour  the  balm  of  consolation 
into  his  heart?  So,  at  least,  thought  those  who  gazed,  as, 
silently  withdrawing,  they  joined  their  neighbors ;  and,  impart¬ 
ing  their  own  deep  sympathy,  all  quietly  sought  their  homes, 
save  a  few  of  the  faithful  who  remained  to  watch  the  coming 
forth  of  their  beloved  pastor. 

The  trial  of  parting  with  his  only  child,  even  though  the 
separation  was  but  partial,  had  proved  far  greater  and  more 
unendurable  than  Bessie’s  father  had  ever  anticipated.  Hastily 
turning  from  the  carriage  as  it  moved  away,  that  his  emotion 
might  not  be  observed,  he  sought  the  solitude  of  his  own  loved 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


19 


sanctuary,  and  instinctively  bent  his  steps  to  the  altar  where, 
but  a  few  short  moments  since,  he  had  consummated  a  union 
which  his  judgment  approved,  but  which  sundered  a  tie  whose 
strength  he  had  never  before  so  fully  realized.  And  now, 
with  head  bent  in  deep  communings  with  his  own  spirit  in  its 
great  grief,  did  the  soft,  sweet  whisper  of  the  angel  of  hope 
pervade  his  soul.  Tremblingly  did  the  long-tried  servant 
listen  to  its  words,  as  they  gently  breathed  to  him  of  heaven, 
and  home,  and  rest.  The  outward  man  moved  not,  stirred 
not,  breathed  not !  but  from  the  shrine  of  his  inner  self  did 
there  go  up  joyful  thanksgiving  and  praise,  and  with  his 
spiritual  eyes  did  he  discern  hosts  of  enraptured  beings,  in 
spotless  robes  and  crowns  of  glory,  awaiting  his  coming,  while 
she  who  had  ever  been  his  guardian  angel,  with  one  hand 
clasped  in  his  and  the  other  pointing  to  the  golden  gates, 
gently  drew  him  on,  and  together  they  winged  their  way  to 
the  celestial  paradise. 

Can  it  be  that  these  seeming  realities  are  but  the  fanta¬ 
sies  of  a  troubled  mind  ?  or  have  his  long  years  of  devotion 
and  self-sacrifice  been  at  length  rewarded  by  the  welcome 
invitation  —  “  Come,  ye  blessed,” — so  sweetly  given  and  so 
joyfully  met  as  to  seem  but  a  glorious  dream  ?  The  sobs, 
tears,  and  heart-felt  exclamations,  of  those  who,  many  hours 
after,  found  him  still  in  the  same  position,  but  stiff  and  cold 
in  death,  proclaimed  that  this  vision  was  but  the  happy  exit 
of  a  redeemed  soul  from  earth. 

Again  do  the  deep  tones  of  the  church-bell  reverberate 
through  hill  and  dale,  but  with  each  solemn  toll  do  the  hearts 
of  this  bereaved  flock  sink  deeper  and  deeper,  for  well  they 
recognize  the  mournful  call  to  go  forth  and  consign  their 


20 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


beloved  pastor  to  his  last  long  rest  beside  the  mound  he  has 
so  often  watered  with  his  tears,  where  sleeps  the  bride  of  his 
youth.  Scarcely  less  deep  is  their  grief  than  that  which 
wrings  her  heart,  who  but  three  days  since  received  in  pater¬ 
nal  blessings  his  last  words  on  earth. 

As  the  grave  closes  over  that  loved  form,  which,  for  many 
years,  has  moved  among  them  in  all  godliness  and  humility, 
and  within  which  throbbed  a  heart  ever  keenly  alive  to  their 
varying  interests,  every  bleeding,  sorrowing  heart  pays  its 
tribute  alike  to  his  worth  and  their  own  irreparable  loss. 
Sleep  on,  thou  chosen  of  the  Lord  !  For  thee  shall  no  monu¬ 
mental  stone  be  reared,  to  tell  of  thy  greatness ;  but  in  the 
simple  marble  slab  do  we  read  the  devotion  of  thy  life  to  its 
great  end,  and  the  place  of  thy  repose  is  indeed  holy  ground. 


V 


I 


CHAPTER  IV. 

“  Lay  this  into  your  breast  : 

Old  friends,  like  old  swords,  still  are  trusted  best.” 

Webster. 

“  Our  first  love  murdered  is  the  sharpest  pang 
A  human  heart  can  feel.” 

Young. 

From  the  grave  of  her  revered  father,  every  fibre  of  her 
quivering  heart  rent  with  agony  as  it  was  thus  severed  from 
its  long  resting-place,  Bessie  went  forth,  with  him  who  was 
now  her  only  earthly  treasure,  to  the  home  he  had  chosen  for 
her.  Deeply  imbibing  the  childlike,  submissive  spirit,  ever 
shining  so  brightly  in  him  who  was  now  reaping  its  reward, 
and  feeling  that  henceforth  his  spirit  would  be  suffered  to 
watch  over  her,  she  did  not  permit  her  selfish  sorrow  to  darken 
the  path  before  her.  Gratefully  she  received  the  quiet  mani¬ 
festations  of  sympathy  from  those  to  whom  she  was  now  to  be 
so  closely  bound ;  and  with  deep,  fervent  thankfulness  did 
she  bless  her  heavenly  Father,  who  had  thus  kindly  opened 
the  hearts  of  her  husband’s  flock  to  receive  the  orphan  bride. 
Nor  did  the  unsurpassed  beauties  of  nature,  of  which  xAsheville 
could  so  justly  boast,  lose  their  effect  in  softening  the  shad¬ 
ows  resting  on  her  heart.  The  wide-spreading  elms  which 


22 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


sheltered  her  new  home,  and  which,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  lined  on  either  side  the  village  road ;  the  bright,  spark¬ 
ling  river,  coursing  its  way  through  the  green  fields,  and 
merging  itself,  not  far  distant,  into  the  broad  Atlantic ;  the 
diversified  scenery  of  hill  and  dale,  woodland  and  plain,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  the  pleasant  homes  of  their  people,  could 
scarcely  fail  to  charm  away  sorrow  from  one  even  less  enthu¬ 
siastic  than  Bessie. 

Released,  in  a  measure,  from  home  duties,  by  the  faithful¬ 
ness  of  her  old  nurse  Bridget,  she  would  wander  forth  at  early 
dawn,  and,  inhaling  new  life  with  each  passing  breeze,  seek 
some  quiet  nook  where  she  could  in  his  silent  temple  worship 
the  God  of  nature.  Thus  was  her  spirit  strengthened  for 
life’s  trials,  and  her  heart  filled  with  a  peace  reflecting  itself 
in  the  kind  words  and  loving  smiles  with  which  she  sought  to 
cheer  her  husband’s  home. 

A  few  short  months,  which  to  her  seemed  but  as  so  many 
happy  days,  were  thus  passed,  when,  as  she  was  returning,  one 
morning,  from  her  accustomed  ramble,  she  was  accosted  by  a 
servant-girl  with  a  beautiful  child  in  her  arms. 

“  Will  you  please,  madam,  to  show  me  the  way  out  of 
these  woods  ?  I  have  lost  the  right  path,  and  my  mistress  will 
be  anxious  about  the  baby,  if  I  am  out  any  longer.” 

“  Certainly,”  replied  Mrs.  Lindsey ;  “  but  where  do  you 
wish  to  go,  and  whose  is  this  darling  treasure  ?  ”  And  she 
stooped  to  admire  and  caress  it. 

“  I  want  to  go  to  Squire  Clayton’s ;  this  is  his  grandson, 
and  if  any  harm  should  befall  him ’t  would  break  the  old  man’s 
heart ;  he  s  ts  a  sight  o’  store  by  him.” 

“  Clayton  !  Clayton  !  ”  repeated  Mrs.  Lindsey ;  “  how 


I 


ANNACLAYTON.  23 

familiar  that  name  sounds  !  I  wonder  if  he  is  any  connection 
of  my  old  schoolmate,  Anna.  What  is  your  mistress  name, 
Susan  ?  for  the  baby  has  told  me  yours !  ”  said  she,  smiling. 

“  Yes,  ma’am,”  replied  she,  “  he  said  ‘  Susy  ’  the  next  thing 
after  he  learnt  ‘mamma.’  Dear  little  Charlie  —  I  love  him 

V. 

so  dearly !  His  mother’s  name  is  Mrs.  Duncan ;  she  is  feeble, 
and  don’t  go  about  much ;  but  then  she  bears  everything  so 
patiently  and  sweetly  —  I  think  sometimes  she  an’t  long  for 
this  world.  But  I  am  talking  too  much,”  said  she,  coloring ; 
“  I  always  forget  myself  when  talking  about  her,  and  you 
seem  so  like  her  that  I  forgot  you  was  a  stranger ;  I  can  find 
my  way  now,  thanks  to  you  for  showing  me.  Come,  Charlie, 
make  a  bow  to  the  lady,  and  say  good-by.” 

“  I  will  walk  along  with  you,”  said  Mrs.  Lindsey,  laughing 
heartily  at  the  little  “  dude-by,”  and  bob  of  the  head.  “  I  am 
going .  to  ask  your  mistress  to  let  you  bring  the  baby  to  my 
house ;  I  want  my  husband  to  see  the  sweet  little  fellow.” 

“  I ’m  afraid  she  won’t,”  replied  Susan,  much  embarrassed, 
“for  she  don’t  see  company,  and  Charlie  is  all  the  comfort 
she ’s  got.  But  there  she  is,  walking  in  the  garden  and  look¬ 
ing  for  us,”  continued  she,  her  agitation  evidently  increasing 
as  they  approached  Squire  Clayton’s  mansion. 

“  Never  fear  your  mistress’  disapprobation,”  said  Mrs. 
Lindsey,  reading  her  look ;  “  I  shall  take  care  to  exculpate 
you  from  any  intention  of  inviting  me  here,  and  will  not 
intrude  upon  her  if  I  find  it  disagreeable.” 

“  I  certainly  owe  you  many  apologies  for  this  intrusion,” 
said  Mrs.  Lindsey,  addressing  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  came  for¬ 
ward  to  meet  them,  “  and  should  not  thus  trespass  upon  your 
retirement  but  for  that  little  fellow,”  pointing  to  the  baby, 


24 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


now  shouting  with  delight  in  his  mother’s  arms.  “  I  accident¬ 
ally  met  him  and  his  nurSe  in  the  wood  yonder,  and  at  her 
request,  as  she  was  somewhat  bewildered,  I  guided  them  out ; 
the  sweet  smiles  and  winning  words  of  little  Charlie,  as  she 
called  him,  charming  me  on  to  your  quiet  retreat,  to  claim 
from  you  a  promise  that  to-morrow  I  may  be  allowed  a  visit 
from  him.  But,”  continued  she,  gazing  intently  into  the 
lovely  face  of  Mrs.  Duncan,  “  you  so  strongly  remind  me  of  a 
dear  cherished  friend  who  has  now  gone  abroad,  that  I  could 
almost - ” 

“Bessie,  Bessie  May!  can  it  be?”  cried  Mrs.  Duncan, 
looking  up  eagerly,  and  clasping  her  arms  about  her.  “  0, 
how  I  have  longed  to  see  you,,  dear,  dear  Bessie !  ”  and  she 
drew  her  to  a  seat  in  the  arbor. 

“  But,  Anna,  dearest,  since  it  is  you,  why  did  you  not 
write  to  me  when  you  returned  from  abroad?  You  know 
you  promised,  and  so  did  Bobert,  that  I  should  be  the  first  to 
welcome  you  home.” 

“  0,  Bessie,  have  you  yet  to  learn  that  I  am  not  Bobert 
Graham’s  wife,  and  that  he  is  wandering  alone  in  a  foreign 
land  ?  ”  replied  Anna,  in  tones  of  anguish. 

“  I  do  remember,  now,  that  Susan  told  me  your  name  was 
Mrs.  Duncan,”  said  Bessie;  “but  the  surprise  and  joy  of 
this  unexpected  meeting  had  driven  it  all  out  of  my  head. 
Pray,  what  does  it  mean,  Anna  ?  for  in  your  pale,  sad  face 
I  read  such  suffering  as  I  little  thought  would  fall  to  the  lot 
of  the  ever-joyous  and  lively  Anna  Clayton.  Surely,  Bobert 
did  not  prove  false !  ” 

“  Bobert  —  never !  You  know,  Bessie,  when  we  were  such 
dear  good  friends  at  school,  I  told  you  how  long  Bobert  and 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


25 


I  had  known  and  loved  each  other,  and  that  as  soon  as  ho 
got  the  appointment  abroad  which  he  expected,  we  should 
together  find  our  home  in  a  distant  land.  I  well  remember 
3Tour  query  —  ‘  Are  you  sure,  Anna,  that  your  father  will 
consent?’  —  and  at  the  moment  it  troubled  me  :  but  llobert 

•s  * 

assured  me  that  he  knew  Of  his  expected' appointment,  and 
that  a  man  of  honor,  like  Squire  Clayton,  would  never  refuse 
his  consent  to  our  union,  when  he  had  sodong  witnessed,  with- 
out  discouraging,  our  increasing  attachment.  Thus  reassured, 
I  did  not  suffer  any  further  doubts  to  cloud  our  happiness ; 
but  returned  home,  as  you  know,  full  of  buoyant  anticipations. 
But,  dear  Bessie,  I  forget  upon  what  a  long  and  sad  story  I 

s 

have  entered  ;  and  so  selfishly  absorbed  have  I  been  in  my  own 
troubles  that  I  have  not  even  inquired  by  what  conjuration 
you,  whom  of  all  others  I  have  most  longed  to  see,  have  been 
brought  to  my  side.” 

“  I  told  you  just  now,”  replied  Bessie,  smiling,  “  that  it 

was  by  the  witchery  of  your  Charlie’s  smiles  I  was  drawn  to 

your  door,  little  thinking,  however,  that  in  his  mother  I  should 

find  my  dearly-loved  and  long-cherished  schoolmate.  But  I 

shall  not  tell  you  one  wffrd  about  myself,  for  I  am  impatient 

to  hear  the  rest  of  your  ‘sad  story.’  Dear  Anna,  if  you 

were  in  trouble,  why  did  you  not  write  and  let  me  come  and 

comfort  you  ?  ”  *  - 

% 

“You  will  know  why,  dear  Bessie,”  replied  she,  “  when  I  have 
told  you  all ;  but  the  joy  of  meeting  you,  and  the  very  thought 
that  I  can,  without  reserve,  open  to  you  my  hitherto  sealed 
heart,  sure  of  receiving  sympathy  and  kind  words,  almost 
overpowers  me,” —  and  tears  came  to  her  relief,  as  she  leaned 
3 


/ 


26 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


/ 

her  head  upon  her  friend’s  shoulder,  and,  in  broken  sentences, 
continued  — 

“  The  kind  and  loving  reception  which  I  met  from  my 

parents  on  my  return  from  school,  and  the  ease  and  freedom 

with  which  Robert  was  domesticated  in  our  social  circle,  as 

though  already  one  of  us,  served  but  to  brighten  our  hopes 

for  the  future.  J udge,  then,  of  my  consternation,  when  one 

morning,  as  I  sat  in  the  library,  with  book  in  hand,  but  with 

thoughts  busily  weaving  such  scenes  of  bliss  as,  alas !  can 

never  exist  save  in  imagination,  my  father  came  in,  and, 

affectionately  patting  my  cheek,  said  he  was  glad  to  find  me 

>. 

there,  as  he  had  just  parted  with  a  dear  friend,  and  was  the 
bearer  of  a  message  for  me  which  he  was  too  happy  to  deliver. 
This  was  none  other  than  an  offer  of  his  heart  and  hand  from 
the  noble -born  and  aristocratic  Charles  Duncan.  ‘Now,  my 
daughter,’  said  he,  exultingly,  as  he  concluded,  ‘  I  shall  live 
to  see  my  fondest  hopes  concerning  you  more  than  realized. 
Charles  Duncan’s  father  is  an  English  nobleman,  and  he  will 
eventually  succeed  to  his  father’s  titles  and  estates.’ 

“  ‘  But,  father,’  said  I,  in  tones  more  of  despair  than  joy  at 
such  an  announcement,  ‘  do  you  not  know  that  this  same 
Charles  is  a  reckless,  dissipated  fellow,  and  that  he  is  well 
aware  of  our  knowledge  of  his  character?  Besides,  the  lim¬ 
ited  acquaintance  we  have  had  with  him  has  only  served  to 
expose  the  shallowness  of  his  brain,  as  well  as  the  baseness  of 
his  heart.  I  should  consider  proposals  from  such  a  man  an 
insult  to  any  pure-minded,  virtuous  girl.’ 

‘  My  child,  you  amaze  me  !  ’  replied  my  father  ;  ‘  the 
attentions  you  have  shown  him  as  our  guest  led  me  to  sup¬ 
pose  that  you,  at  least,  respected  him.  These  little  follies, 


« 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


27 


so  common  to  young  men  of  his  station,  he  will  soon  get 
over.’ 

“  ‘  It  was  only  as  your  guest,  father,  that  I  have  endeavored 
to  show  him  some  respect ;  for,  from  the  first,  I  have  felt 
a  strange  repugnance  to  him.  I  cannot  marry  him,  dear 
father !  ’ 

“My  father  sat  some  moments  in  silence,  his  head  resting 
upon  both  hands,  his  countenance  expressive  of  great  disap¬ 
pointment,  while  I,  almost  stupefied  by  an  undefinable  pre¬ 
sentiment  of  coming  evil,  sank  upon  my  knees  at  his  feet, 
exclaiming,  ‘  Surely,  father,  you  do  not  wish  me  to  marry 
one  who  not  only  unblushingly  boasts  of  his  villany  in  betray¬ 
ing  confiding  innocence,  but  is  also  an  avowed  enemy  of  the 
religion  in  which  we  were  nurtured.’ 

“  ‘  Tut,  tut,  child  !’  replied  he,  hastily,  ‘  what  do  you  know 
about  religion?  Mr.  Duncan  told  me,  to-day,  that,  although 
he  is  a  Catholic,  he  should  never  interfere  with  his  wife’s  re¬ 
ligious  affairs ;  and  as  to  his  boasting,  as  you  say,  I  think  you 
have  been  misinformed.  So,  come,  dry  your  tears,  and  pre¬ 
pare  to  look  your  best,  for  he  is  to  dine  with  us  to-day,  and 
desires  a  “  tete-a-tete  ”  with  you  afterwards.’ 

“  ‘  Then,  father,’  said  I,  still  kneeling  before  him,  ‘  I  must 
beg  you  to  inform  Mr.  Duncan  that  I  cannot  grant  him  an 
interview,  or  listen  for  a  moment  to  his  proposals  ;  for  my 
heart  already  acknowledges  a  possessor  whom  I  can  at  once 
respect  and  love.’ 

“  ‘  Anna,  what  do  you  mean  ?  ’  replied  my  father,  with  much 
agitation. 

“  ‘  I  mean,  dear  father,  that  with  all  my  heart  I  love  Heb¬ 
ert  Graham,  and  his  wife  only  can  I  be  without  perjuring 


28 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


my  plighted  faith,’  answered  I,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  I 
said. 

“  A  gentle  knock  at  the  door  -prevented  the  reply  bursting 
from  my  father’s  lips,  and  Robert  Graham  entered  just  in 
time  to  avert  the  storm  of  wrath  from  my  head.  Gazing  with 
surprise  on  my  kneeling  form  and  the  agitated  countenances  of 
both,  and  with  ready  instinct  divining  the  cause,  he,  too,  knelt 
before  my  father,  and,  with  my  hand  clasped  in  his  own, 
exclaimed,  ‘  Will  you  not  bless  your  children  ?  ’ 

“  1  Never  !  ’  uttered  my  father,  in  tones  which  struck  terror 
to  our  hearts,  and  caused  mine,  at  least,  to  sink  in  despair  — 
for  well  I  knew  their  import.  It  had  been  the  work  of  an 
instant ;  but  in  that  one  moment  all  our  fond  hopes  had  been 
concentrated,  and  with  a  word  were  they  thus  blighted.  0, 
what  a  fearful  responsibility  does  a  father  bring  upon  himself 
when  he  thus  hopelessly  shuts  out  the  first  light  of  love  from 
the  heart  of  his  child ! 

“  I  have  but  an  indistinct  recollection  of  the  remainder  of 
that  morning’s  interview.  I  knew  that  no  pleading,  earnest 
as  it  was,  of  Robert’s,  could  soften  my  father’s  heart  or  change 
his  determination ;  and,  with  many  reproaches,  he  banished 
him  from  the  house,  not,  however,  without  conceding  to  him 
the  privilege  of  one  last  interview  with  me,  after  I  should 
become  more  composed.  But,  in  the  wild  ravings  of  delirium 
ever  ringing  the  changes  on  the  dreadful  word  ‘  never? 
Robert  was  forced  to  leave  me,  as  the  appointment  he  had 
received  admitted  of  no  delay.  He  had,  as  I  afterwards 
learned,  incessantly  importuned  my  father  to  alleviate  our 
doom,  by  giving  him  some  distant  hope.  But  he  was  told 
that  I  must  and  should  forget  this  youthful  fancy,  and  marry 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


29 


as  my  friends  wished.  Then  Robert,  in  the  anguish  of  his 
soul,  wrote  the  farewell  he  could  not  speak ;  assuring  me  of 
his  constancy,  and  implicitly  confiding  in  mine,  though  I 
might  be  compelled,  through  inability  to  avert  it,  to  acquiesce 
in  my  impending  fate !  0,  how  different  was  his  departure 

from  a  1  that  our  fond  anticipations  had  pictured !  Solitary 
he  sought  his  distant  home,  where  he  had  hoped  to  find  his 
little  world  of  happiness.” 

“  Dear  Anna,”  interrupted  Mrs.  Lindsey,  while  her  own 
tears  were  fast  flowing  in  sympathy  with  her  friend,  “  this  is 
too  painful ;  I  little  thought  I  was  awakening  remembrances 
so  bitter.  Much  as  I  desire  to  hear  the  rest  of  your  story,  — 
and  that  I  do  most  intensely,  —  I  cannot  permit  my  curiosity 
to  cause  you  so  much  suffering.”  ' 

“  You  are  the  first  and'  only  one,  Bessie,  to  whom  I  could 
thus  pour  out  my  heart,  and  perhaps  it  is  wrong  to  speak  of 
those  things  even  to  you ;  but  I  feel  that  it  will  do  me  good, 
and  I  shall  be  none  the  less  faithful  to  my  duties  because  you 
have  helped  me  bear  my  burden.  How  I  wish  I  could  ever 
have  you  near  me  !  ” 

“And  so  you  will,  for  I  have  come  with  my  dear  husband 
to  live  in  the  village  yonder,  and  every  day  we  can  see  each 
other.  Herbert  will  be  delighted  to  meet  you  —  he  has  heard 
me  say  so  much  about  you.” 

“  Then  you  did  marry  Herbert,  whose  name  caused  you 
to  blush  so  when  we  were  at  school !  Tell  me  all  about  it, 
Bessie.” 

“Marry  him!  Yes,  to  be  sure  I  did,”  replied  Bessie; 
“  what  could  I  have  done  without  him  ?  for  I,  too,  have 
had  sorrow,  Anna,  though  not  like  yours.  My  dear  father, 
3* 


30 


ANNA  CL  AY  TON. 


who,  }'ou  know,  was  all  in  all  to  me,  died  the  very  day  I  be¬ 
came  Herbert’s  wife ;  and  though  he  fell  asleep  as  sweetly 
and  quietly  as  an  infant,  my  heart  would  have  been  crushed 
by  its  bereavement,  had  it  not  been  for  the  blessed  sympathy 
of  my  husband.  So  tenderly  did  He,  ‘  whose  loving-kindness 
changeth  not,’  remove  me  from  my  childhood’s  ever-watchful 
guide,  to  the  protection  of  one  scarcely  less  dear  or  less  de¬ 
voted,  I  could  not  murmur  at  the  messenger  of  mercy  who 
so  gently  called  him  home.” 

“  0,  Bessie,  you  were  always  so  hopeful,  you  could  bear 
trouble  better  than  I,”  replied  Mrs.  Duncan,  with  a  sigh. 

“  Rather  say,  my  dear  Anna,  that  I  have  been  enabled  to 
cast  my  burden  on  One  who  has  promised  to  sustain  me ;  and, 
though  your  troubles  are  more  grievous  to  be  borne,  yet  is  He 
able  to  sustain  you,  also.  But  I  must  hasten  home,  for  it  is 
nearly  dinner-time,  and  I  should  be  sadly  missed  at  our  table, 
where  two  of  us  compose  the  whole  family.” 

“  I  cannot  let  you  go,  dear  Bessie,  without  a  promise  that 
you  will  return  this  afternoon,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  as  she  once 
more  threw  her  arms  around  her,  “ ’t  is  such  a  luxury  to  see 
you,  and  I  have  so  much  more  to  say  and  to  hear !  ” 

“  If  not  this  afternoon,  I  will  come  to-morrow  morning, 
Anna,”  replied  Bessie,  affectionately  kissing  her ;  “  be  as¬ 
sured  I  am  anxious  to  hear  the  rest  as  soon  as  you  are  able 
to  bear  the  recital,  which  your  pale  face  admonishes  me  is  not 
to-day.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

“  But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will, 

How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill  !  ” 

Pope. 

v  -  t 

Among  the  hills  of  Yorkshire,  remarkable  for  their  pic¬ 
turesque  scenery,  there  stood  a  noble  mansion,  whose  magnifi¬ 
cent  parks  and  highly-cultivated  grounds  proclaimed  at  once 
the  refined  taste  and  opulence  of  the  owner.  It  was  one  of 
those  delightful  spots  so  common  in  England,  where  each 

generation,  as  it  hands  down  to  posterity  the  fruits  of  its 

✓ 

labor,  leaves  also  its  own  impress  in  the  taste  and  care 

bestowed  on  the  inheritance.  Most  skilfully  had  the  exquisite 

> 

taste  of  the  former  owner  of  Beechgrove  displayed  itself,  in 
rendering  it  one  of  the  most  beautiful  retreats  upon  which  the 
eye  could  rest.  Grottoes,  fountains,  murmuring  waters  min¬ 
gling  with  the  songs  of  rare  and  costly  birds,  enchanting  the 
senses  almost  to  satiety,  would  abruptly  terminate  in  the 
wildest,  grandest  scenery  of  nature’s  mould, —  winding  paths 
shaded  by  the  noble  and  majestic  trees  which  gave  to  the 
place  its  simple  and  unpretending  name,  suddenly  revealing 
on  one  hand  favorite  bowers  for  the  fairies’  revels,  while 
shudderingly  the  eye  would  turn  to  gaze  from  the  overhanging 


32 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


precipice  on  the  other  side,  down  the  deep,  dark  ravine  int< 
which  the  waters  were  madly  dashing  oyer  its  rocky  sides. 
These  ever-varying  though  never-wearying  beauties  of  art 
and  nature  combined  evinced,  as  we  before  said,  the  exquisite 
taste  of  its  former  owner  ;  sorry  are  we  to  add  that,  at  the 
time  to  which  our  story  relates,  it  had  come  into  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  one  who  could  see  nothing  in  this  unique  blending  of 
extremes  but  the  oddity  of  a  bachelor  uncle,  who,  having  no 

i  > 

nearer  relations,  had  made  his  sister’s  only  child  sole  heir  to 
his  princely  fortune,  together  with  the  homestead  which  it  had 
been  his  life-long  business  to  bring  to  its  present  perfection. 
William  Duncan,  or  Sir  William,  as  he  was  now  called,  thus 
suddenly  stepped  from  comparative  obscurity,  in  Ireland,  to 
the  ownership  and  occupancy  of  an  estate  whose  beauty  he 
could  not  appreciate,  and  whose  greatest  charm,  to  his  shallow 
mind,  was  the  rare  facilities  it  afforded  for  game  and  the 
chase.  From  these  employments  he  was  certainly  not 
restrained  by  any  domestic  allurements.  Lady  Duncan,  ever 
weak-minded,  was  too  much  engrossed  in  the  honors  of  her 
unexpected  elevation  to  think  or  cafe  for  the  pursuits  of 
either  her  husband  or  son.  The  latter  was,  therefore,  left  to 
follow  his  own  inclination,  both  in  the  choice  of  companions 

t 

and  amusements;  nor  was  he  long  in  developing  traits  of 
character  which  showed  but  too  plainly  that,  with  the  reck¬ 
lessness  of  his  father,  he  also  imbibed  the  puerility  of  his 
mother. 

Not  all  the  admonitions  of  Father  Bernaldi,  their  family 
confessor,  nor  the  remonstrances  of  his  tutor,  joined  with  the 
entreaties  and  even  threats  of  parents,  could  check  the  im¬ 
petuosity  with  which  he  plunged  into  every  species  of  dissipa- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


33 


tion.  With  a  mind  undisciplined,  and  naturally  self-willed, 
he  sought  only  his  own  gratification,  regardless  alike  of  the 
proprieties  of  life  or  the  laws  of  nature.  It  was,  therefore, 
no  matter  of  surprise  to  the  good  physician,  who  was  sum¬ 
moned  to  the  bedside  of  Charles  Duncan,  that  he  found  his 
constitution  shattered,  and  his  whole  system  enervated.  With 
great  assiduity  did  Dr.  Murray  set  himself  to  the  task  of 
restoring  vigor  to  the  body,  while  the  zealous  priest  was  no 
less  indefatigable  in  his  labors  to  reclaim  the  heart,  and  bring 
him  within  the  pale  of  holy  mother  church.  The  partial  suc¬ 
cess  of  both  was  visible,  as,  after  a  tedious  confinement  of 
three  months,  he  bent  his  steps,  one  Sabbath  morning,  to  the 
chapel  to  celebrate  mass,  and  bowed  his  head  to  receive 
the  sprinkling  of  holy  water  from  the  reverend  father’s 
hands. 

At  the  doctor’s  suggestion,  seconded  by  Father  Bernaldi, 
who  was  fearful,  of  losing  the  little  influence  he  had  already 
gained,  wdien  Charles  should  again  be  able  to  mingle  with 
former  associates,  it  was  decided  that  he  should  spend  a  year 
or  twro  abroad,  in  the  company  and  under  the  guidance  of 
the  faithful  priest.  Together,  therefore,  they  sought  the 
shores  of  America,  with  no  other  object  than  to  while  awray 
the  time  in  the  manner  most  conducive  to  the  health  and 
spirits  of  the  heir  of  Beechgrove. 

To  a  mind  that  had  failed  to  appreciate  the  inimitable 
grandeur  and  beauty  surrounding  his  ow7n  home,  the  scenery 
of  New  England  would  scarcely  seem  worthy  of  a  passing 
notice.  Though  nature  welcomed  him  in  her  gayest  mood, 
and  smilingly  strewed  his  path  with  her  choicest  treasures ; 
though  flowers  rich  and  rare  bent  their  .lovely  forms  before 


84 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


him,  and  filled  his  every  breath  with  fragrance ;  and  though 
the  hills — our  own  glorious  New  England  hills  —  with  their 

f 

boundless  wealth  of  luxurious  foliage,  seemed  to  bow  their 
noble  heads,  and  sent  forth  their  feathered  choir  to  entice  him 
to  their  forest  home,  yet  was  not  his  spirit  attuned  to  this 
pure  melody,  nor  his  heart  fitted  to  mingle  with  this  simple 
worship  of  nature.  Far  more  delightful  to  him  were  the 
sounds  of  revelry  and  mirth,  and  the  congeniality  he  sought 
dwelt  only  in  the  haunts  of  the  pleasure-seeking  world. 
Towards  the  gay  metropolis,  therefore,  he  hastily  turned  his 
steps,  willingly  aided  by  Father  Bernaldi,  to  whose  counsel 
he  listened  just  so  far  as  it  accorded  with  his  own  gratifica¬ 
tion,  and  who,  therefore,  felt  doubly  the  need  of  other  watch¬ 
ful  eyes  than  his  own  to  guard  the  wayward  youth. 

Having  domesticated  themselves  in  the  most  luxurious 

apartments  they  could  command  in  the  city  of  B - ,  Charles 

Duncan  entered  with  keen  zest  into  the  new  scenes  of  dissipa¬ 
tion  thus  opened  before  him,  and  pleasure  soon  enrolled  him 
among  her  gayest  votaries.  Meanwhile,  Bernaldi,  ever  wary 
and  vigilant  for  the  interests  of  the  church  he  served,  had 

sought  the  presence  of  Bishop - ,  to  whom  he  was  bearer 

of  a  letter  from  his  most  worshipful  reverence  the  Bishop  of 
York,  within  whose  diocese  lived  Sir  William  Duncan.  It 
ran  thus : 

&  •  ^ 

“  In  Alphonso  Bernaldi,  the  bearer  of  this,  you  will  recog¬ 
nize  our  most  faithful  emissary,  to  whom  has  been  intrusted 
the  care  of  an  important  though  capricious  youth.  It  is  our 
pleasure  that  you  afford  him  all  the  aid  he  needs  in  the  watch 
and  care  of  this  person,  that  so  he  may  be  brought  within  the 
most  holy  church,  and  his  estates  be  converted  to  her  use  and 
benefit.  Hugh  Peiigy,  Bishop  of  York” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


35 


“  And  you  say  this  young  man  is  rather  headstrong,”  que¬ 
ried  the  bishop,  as  he  refolded  the  letter  and  filed  it  among 
his  “  important  documents.” 

“  Ay,  that  he  is,”  replied  Bernaldi ;  “  he  pays  but  little 
heed  to  anything  but  his  own  gratification.” 

“  What  do  you  consider  the  weakest  —  the  most  accessible 
point  in  his  character?”  asked  the  wily  bishop. 

“  Really,  sir,  he  is  altogether  so  weak,  it  is  difficult  to  point 
out  any  one  deficiency,”  answered  the  priest. 

The  right  reverend  father  sat  some  moments  in  deep  thought; 
at  length  he  inquired,  “  Is  he  fond  of  gaming  ?  ” 

“  lie  is,  passionately,”  replied  Bernaldi. 

“  I  have  him,  then,”  exultingly  exclaimed  the  bishop,  as 
his  keen  gray  eyes  twinkled  with  delight ;  “  all  you  have  to 
do  is  to  encourage  him  in  this  amusement ;  I  will  take  care 
of  the  rest ;”  and  he  rubbed  his  hands  with  infinite  satisfac¬ 
tion  as  his  guest  rose  to  leave. 

“You  will  find  a  faithful  coadjutor  in  all  your  reverence 
desires,”  obsequiously  added  Father  Bernaldi ;  “  I  will  from 
time  to  time  report  to  you  his  progress.” 

“  Do  so,”  said  the  bishop,  as  he  sat  down  to  arrange  his 
well-conceived  plan. 

“  Where  to-night,  my  young  man  ?  ”  playfully  inquired  the 
companion  of  Charles  Duncan,  as  they  rose  from  the  tea-table, 
and  the  latter  prepared  to  go  out. 

“  Where  ?  why,  wherever  fun  and  frolic  reign  I  shall  be 
sure  to  go,  good  father  ;  why  do  you  ask  ?  ”  carelessly  replied 
Charles. 

“  Do  you  never  think,  Charles,  how  lonely  it  must  be  to  sit 


V 


36  ANNACLAYTON. 

here  moping  over  my  books  till  midnight,  waiting  for  you?  ” 
said  Father  Bernaldi,  reproachfully.  , 

“  Why,  you  astonish  me,”  exclaimed  Charles,  incredulously, 
looking  at  his  companion.  “JL  thought  you  was  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world,  with  your  books,  and  prayers,  and  good  deeds.” 

“  Well,  now,  suppose  I  should  confess  to  you,  Charles,  that  * 
I  do  sometimes  tire  of  these  thingsr  and  long  to  get  a  little 
insight  into  the  world  of  pleasure,  —  what  would  you  think  ?  ” 

“  Think  —  why,  I  should  be  perfectly  delighted  just  to  show 
you  a  little  of  what  I  call  pleasure ;  but,”  he  added,  laugk- 
ingly,  “  I  fear  your  priestly  robes  would  be  sadly  out  of  place 
where  I  go  to-night.” 

“Why  not,  then,  lay  them  aside  for  one  evening?”  warily 
answered  the  priest. 

“What  do  you  mean,  my  good  father-confessor?”  replied 
Charles,  with  more  feeling  than  Bernaldi  thought  he  pos¬ 
sessed  ;  “  if  it  is  your  intention  to  play  the  spy  on  me,  you 
had  better  stick  to  your  prayers,  for,  mind  you,  I ’m  not  to  be 
dogged  about  anywhere.”  :o. 

“  Pardon  me,  Charles,  nothing  was  further  from  my  inten¬ 
tion  than  such  a  course,”  humbly  replied  the  abashed  priest. 

“  It  is  a  weakness,  I  confess,  which  I  must  overcome ;  but  I 
had  a  desire  to  spend  this  evening  with  you.” 

“  Come,  then,  good  father,  we  won’t  quarrel,  and  if  you 
will  promise  not  to  preach  to  me  again  for  a  month,  I  shall  be 
glad  of  your  company  to-night ;  but,  mind  you,  not  a  word  to 
the  old  man  about  it,  or  else  he  might  cut  off  my  supplies.” 

“My  word  for  it,  he  shall  not  know  anything  from  me,” 
promptly  responded  Bernaldi,  by  whom  such  a  result  would 
be  equally  deprecated. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


37 


The  brilliantly-lighted  saloon,  into  which  Charles  Duncan 
and  his  friend  were  ushered,  presented,  even  at  that  early 
hour,  a  very  lively  scene.  Groups  of  all  classes,  from  the 
princely  merchant  to  the  meagre-salaried  clerk,  were  collected 
in  various  parts  of  the  room,  eagerly  discussing  matters  of 
interest  pertaining  to  their  evening’s  amusement,  or  earnestly 
watching  at  the  tables  those  who  had  already  launched  into 
the  tide  of  luck.  Servants,  continually  passing  and  repassing, 
with  their  tempting  displays  of  delicacies  and  choice  wines, 
served  up  in  rich  glass  and  massive  silver,  gave  to  the  whole 
an  air  of  enjoyment  alluring  to  the  uninitiated. 

The  entrance  of  the  two  new  comers  would  not,  of  course, 
excite  much  attention,  where  so  many  were  coming  and  going; 
but  a  close  observer,  in  glancing  around  the  room,  could  not 
fail  to  notice  that  a  pair  of  keen  black  eyes  were  bent  upon 
them  searchingly,  and  immediately  withdrawn,  while  a  precon¬ 
certed  signal  was  given  to  one  standing  near  them.  With  a 
careless  and  somewhat  indifferent  manner  this  person  ap¬ 
proached  Charles,  and  in  his  blandest  tone  invited  him  to 
join  a  group  just  forming  around  a  faro-table.  At  any  other 
time  and  place,  Charles  would  have  hesitated  before  mingling 
with  a  set  of  entire  strangers  ;  but  the  invitation,  though  ab¬ 
rupt,  was  so  courteously  extended,  and  the  appearance  of  the 
person  so  perfectly  in  accordance  with  his  ideas  of  a  gentle¬ 
man,  that  he  at  once  accepted,  and,  telling  his  companion,  in 
a  low  voice,  to  seek  for  his  own  amusement,  he  was  soon  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  the  game  to  observe  what  was  passing 
around  him. 

Other  eyes  than  Mr.  Manning’s  had  noticed  the  searching 
glance  bestowed  on  them ;  and  no  sooner  had  Charles  separated 
4 


38 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


himself  from  Father  Bernaldi  than  the  latter,  gliding  cau- 
tiously  along,  found  himself  vis-a-vis  to  those  small  gray  eyes, 
whose  peculiar  expression  he  had  noted  in  his  morning’s  in¬ 
terview.  So  complete  was  the  transformation  effected  in  each 
other  by  their  assumed  disguises,  tha.t  it  required  great 
shrewdness  to  detect  the  smooth,  fair  face  and  bald  head  of 
the  reverend  bishop,  beneath  those  flowing  locks,  heavy  eye¬ 
brows,  and  patriarchal  beard  ;  and  no  less  eunning-was  evinced 
in  identifying  the  gay  and  fashionably-dressed  young  man  of 
pleasure  with  the  meek  and  obsequious  father-confessor.  A 
scarcely  perceptible  start,  as  they  passed  each  other,  was  the 
only  intimation  to  Bernaldi  that  the  recognition  was  mutual. 

Warily  they  threaded  their  way,  stopping  to  note,  with 
apparent  interest,  the  success  of  one,  or  sympathizing  with  the 
ill  luck  of  another,  till  they  reached  an  unoccupied  table, 
where  they  could  overhear,  without  being  seen  by  the  parties 
near  them.  Seating  themselves  and  ordering  refreshments, 

with  merely  the  simple  courtesy  of  strangers,  the  elder  of  the 

%  * 

two  was  soon  seemingly  absorbed  in  the  contents  of  the  news¬ 
paper  before  him,  while  the  other,  with  an  ill-concealed  attempt 
at  indifference,  listened  to  the  conversation  near  him. 

“  I  say,  Manning,  what  a  deuced  fine  fellow  you  are  !  ” 
exclaimed  Charles  Duncan,  as  he  heaped  up  his  ill-gotten 
winnings  and  prepared  for  a  larger  stake ;  “  you  ’re  the  best 
player  I  ever  see.  Come,  now,  give  us  another  glass,  and  we  ’ll 
try  it  again.” 

“  Really,  Mr.  Duncan,  your  remarks  are  very  flattering,” 
replied  Mr.  Manning,  with  a  sarcastic  smile ;  “  allow  me  the 
honor  of  refilling  your  glass.  Gentlemen,  here ’s  to  the  health 
and  prosperity  of  our  new  friend !  ” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


39 


Every  glass  was  drained  save  the  speaker’s,  who  quietly 
replaced  his  on  the  table  unobserved,  the  lurking  smile  betray¬ 
ing  his  evident  satisfaction. 

“  What  say  you,  Mr.  Duncan,  to  a  drive  into  the  country 
to-morrow,  to  see  some  of  our  rustic  beauties  ?  ” 

“  Agreed  !  ”  cried  the  half-drunken  Charles.  “  I  declare 
you  are  the  cleverest  chap  I  ’ve  met  with  in  this  country ; 
let ’s  make  up  a  ruralizing  party  to-morrow  at  my  expense,” 
continued  he,  elated  with  wine  and  success,  “  and  we  ’ll  choose 
Mr.  Manning  for  our  guide.” 

Their  assent  was  pledged  in  another  glass,  when  Mr.  Man¬ 
ning  proposed  retiring,  that  they  might  be  prepared  for  their 
next  day’s  excursion.  Gently  drawing  Charles’  arm  within 
his  own,  he  quietly  led  the  way  through  several  streets  to  his 
apartments  at  the  hotel.  The  fumes  of  the  wine  Charles  had 

«  A  ■  . 

so  freely  imbibed,  though  still  coursing  through  his  brain, 
did  not  blind  him  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Manning  seemed 
familiar  with  his  locality.  With  a  half-puzzled  air,  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  , 

“How  the  deuce  you  knew  where  I  lived  I  cannot  imagine; 
but  I ’ve  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  you ;  so  come  in  and  have  a 
little  chat  over  a  glass  of  Madeira.” 

Mr.  Manning  did  not  require  a  second  invitation,  and,  with 
graceful  ease  throwing  himself  into  the  proffered  seat,  he  spoke 
in  his  most  winning  tones. 

“It  is  not  often  my  judgment  and  inclination  agree  in  the 
choice  of  friends,  but  this  evening  has  convinced  me  that  such 
may  be  found,  and  I  rejoice  that  the  interest  with  which  you 
inspired  me  is  mutual.  We  shall  indeed  be  friends.” 

Could  Charles  Duncan  have  looked  into  the  heart  of  the 


40 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


speaker  as  he  uttered  so  emphatically  this  prediction,  even  he 
would  have  shrunk  with  disgust  from  its  fulfilment;  for,  though 
deeply  versed  in  dissipation  and  vice,  this  had  been  rather  the 
result  of  a  weak  intellect,  combined  with  an  impulsive  nature, 
than  the  distillations  of  a  naturally  malicious  heart.  Philip 
Manning,  on  the  contrary,  might  justly  be  compared  to  a 
“  whited  sepulchre,”  polished  externally,  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
captivating  to  the  senses,  but  within  full  of  uncleanness  and 
pollution.  ;  . 

The  reverend  father  was  not  ignorant  of  the  peculiar  quali¬ 
fications  of  the  instrument  he  had  employed  to  decoy  his 
unwary  victim  ;  and  the  supply  of  means,  together  with  prom¬ 
ised  future  reward,  was  a  sufficient  incentive  to  puf  in 
requisition  all  Philip’s  consummate  art.  With  ready  tact  he 
had  at  once,  as  we  have  seen,  ingratiated  himself  with  Charles ; 
and  as  they  now  sat  sipping  their  social  glass,  he  adroitly 
drew  from  him  all  he  wished  to  know,  both  of  his  past  life 
and  future  intentions.  They  parted  at  a  late  hour,  in  the  best 
possible  humor  with  each  other.  Charles  was  delighted  that 
in  his  new  friend  he  had  algo  found  an  agreeable  companion 
for  his  revels,  and  Manning  was  no  less  pleased  that  he  had 
such  a  pliant  nature  to  mould. 

It  was  not  till  Charles  was  left  alone  that  he  bethought 
himself  of  Father  Bernaldi.  Hastily  seizing  his  hat,  and 
reproaching  himself  for  his  neglect,  he  was  about  to  return  to 
the  saloon  where  he  had  left  him,  when  he  perceived  two 
persons  standing  in  the  doorway  in  earnest  conversation,  one 
of  whom,  at  his  approach,  walked  hastily  away,  and  the 
other,  turning  towards  him,  revealed  the  features  of  the  rev¬ 
erend  father. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


41 


“You  must  excuse  me,”  said  the  unsuspecting  Charles, 
laughing;  “I  am  so  used  to  going  and  coming  alone  that  I 
entirely  forgot  you  to-night,  —  indeed,  I  almost  forgot  myself 
in  the  fascinating  society  of  my  new  friend.” 

“  It  was  just  as  well,”  replied  the  priest ;  “  I  found,  my  way 
without  difficulty.  But  who,  pray,  has  so  nearly  charmed 
you  out  of  your  own  identity  ?  ” 

“All  I  know  about  him,  father,  is,  that  he  is  a  perfect 
gentleman  and  delightful  companion ;  and  that  is  all  I  care 
for.” 

“  Beware,  my  son,  how  you  mingle  with  these  men  of  pleas¬ 
ure  !  I  trust  you  are  destined  for  higher  pursuits  than  those 
in  which  you  have  engaged  this  evening,”  solemnly  added 
Father  Bernaldi,  as  he  laid  aside  his  borrowed  garments. 

“You  promised  not  to  preach  to  me  again  for  a  month,” 
petulantly  exclaimed  Charles,  “  and  here  you  are  at  it  again 
before  we  have  been  in  the  house  half  an  hour  !  I  suppose 
the  next  thing  you  will  be  blabbing  to  the  old  man !  ” 

“  I  only  warn  you  for  your  good,”  meekly  replied  Ber¬ 
naldi. 


4* 


* 


/ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

j 


“  This  work  requires  long  time,  dissembling  looks. 


Commixt  with  undermining  actions. 
Watching  advantages  to  execute.” 


With  the  first  beams  of  the  morning  sun  Philip  Manning 
arose,  and,  hastily  dressing  himself,  proceeded,  with  noiseless 
steps,  through  a  long  corridor  which  led  from  his  dwelling  to 
the  apartments  occupied  by  the  right-reverend  bishop.  Giv¬ 
ing  the  usual  signal,  he  was  immediately  admitted  by  the 
prelate  himself,  and  for  two  hours  their  low  and  earnest  tones 
might  be  heard  in  eager  discourse.  At  length  the  door  slowly 
opened,  and  Philip,  after  casting  a  quick,  searching  glance 
around,  returned  by  the  same  passage  to  his  own  room,  where 
he  completed  his  morning’s  toilet  with  care,  and  partook  of  a 
sumptuous  breakfast. 

A  more  experienced  observer  than  Charles  Duncan  could 
not  have  seen  the  slightest  defect  in  his  figure  or  dress  as  he 
emerged  from  the  house,  an  hour  later,  to  join  his  companions 
in  the  contemplated  excursion ;  but  the  sinister  expression  of 
his  eye,  and  the  Judas-like  smile  playing  around  his  lips, 
betrayed  the  villain  beneath  this  elegant  exterior. 

“  Well,  Mr.  Manning,”  said  one  of  the  party,  as  he  and 
Charles  approached,  “where  shall  we  go  to-day  ?  You  are 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


43 


to  be  the  guide,  you  know ;  so  we  have  only  to  follow  your 
directions.” 

“  If  I  am  to  lead  you  to-day,”  replied  Manning,  pleasantly 
smiling,  “it  shall  be  wherever  you  choose  to  go.  I  have  just 
heard,  by  the  by,  that  there  is  to  be  a  village  fair  about 
tweuty  miles  from  here.  What  say  you  to  a  peep  at  the 
country  fairies,  and  a  purchase  from  some  of  those  plump, 
white  hands  ?  ” 

“  0,  by  all  means  let ’s  go  to  the  country  fair !  ”  eagerly 
exclaimed  Charles,  seconded  by  the  others.  And  for  the  fair 
they  started  in  high  spirits,  full  of  glee  with  their  anticipated 
fun.  , 

“  I  declare,  if  there  an’t  old  Clayton’s  carriage  !  ”  said 
Johnson,  as  they  drove  into  the  yard  of  the  only  inn  the  vil¬ 
lage  afforded ;  “  if  we  catch  a  sight  of  his  pretty  daughter, 
we  shall  be  well  paid  for  coming,  I  ’ll  agree.” 

“Dick,  why  don’t  you  strike  there?”  replied  Manning; 
“you  ’re  handsome  enough  to  captivate  any  girl.” 

“But  not  Anna  Clayton,  Manning;  Bichard  Johnson’s 
not  the  man  for  that.  Besides,  she’s  already  spoken  for, 
judging  by  the  sweet  looks  and  smiles  she  bestows  on  that 
handsome  fellow  who  is  always  at  her  side.” 

“  You  mean  Ilobert  Graham,”  said  Morton,  contemptuously. 
“  Depend  upon  it,  old  Clayton  never  ’ll  let  his  daughter  marry 
that  poor  scamp.”  *  - 

“If  he  is  poor,”  replied  Johnson,  warmly,  “he  is  the 
noblest-hearted  fellow  I  know  of.  If  anybody  is  fit  to  marry 
her,  it  is  Bobert  Graham.” 

“  It  seems  to  me  you  are  quite  enlisted  in  her  service,” 


44 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


laughingly  interrupted  Manning.  “  We  must  assuredly  see 
this  paragon  of  beauty, — -eh,  Duncan?” 

“  That  we  must ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  let ’s  go  in  and 
drink  to  her  health,”  replied  Charles. 

Great  had  been  the  bustle  and  excitement,  particularly 
among  the  young  folks,  in  their  preparation  for  this  merry¬ 
making.  Notices  had  been  posted  in  all  the  neighboring 
towns,  and  the  streets  of  the  usually  quiet  little  village  were 
now  teeming  with  life,  as  they  poured  in  from  every  side,  a 
gay  throng  of  rustic  beaux  and  belles. 

Charles  was  enraptured  with  this  display  of  country  charms, 

and  eagerly  participated  in  the  festive  scenes,  so  new  to  him ; 

dancing  with  one,  flirting  with  another,  and  frolicking  with 

troops  of  country  lasses,  in  high  glee.  He  had  managed,  with 

the  help  of  hisx friend  Manning,  to  ingratiate  himself  with 

Squire  Clayton,  the  wealthiest  and  most  aristocratic  man  in 

the  whole  region,  and  sued,  but  in  vain,  for  the  hand  of  his 

*  ^  ■  / 

fair  daughter,  in  the  dance.  To  every  invitation  “  engaged  ” 
was  the  smiling  answer ;  and  he  saw,  with  evident  chagrin, 
that  it  was  far  from  being  an  unwilling  reply.  Piqued,  at 
length,  by  her  indifference,  he  sought  more  willing  partners ; 
but  the  vision  of  her  lovely  form,  floating  gracefully  about  in 
the  mazes  of  the  dance,  seemed  to  him  more  beautiful  than 
anything  he  had  ever  seen,  and  stirred  within  a  depth  of 
feeling  hitherto  unknown  to  himself. 

Happily  for  Charles,  the  simple  habits  of  the  villagers 
required  no  stronger  stimulant  than  their  own  free,  joyous 
spirits ;  else  his  unrestrained  fondness  for  the  wine-cup  would 
have  lessened  the  admiration  with  which  Squire  Clayton 
(who,  by  the  by,  Manning  took  care  to  inform  of  Charles’ 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


45 


station  and  fortune)  regarded  him.  The  old  man  was  not 

insensible  to  the  attractions  of  titled  wealth,  and  he  looked 

with  surprise  upon  his  daughter’s  evident  aversion  to  the 

*  _  *  ^ 

object  of  it.  Treating  it,  however,  as  a  girlish  freak,  he  was 

more  assiduous  in  his  own  attentions,  and,  at  parting  with 

Charles,  gave  him  a  cordial  invitation  to  visit  his  house 

whenever  it  suited  his  pleasure. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  in  accordance  with  Charles’ 
wishes,  and  he  resolved  to  improve  to  the  utmost  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  thus  afforded  him  of  meeting  one  whom  his  heart 
acknowledged  unequalled  by  any  of  her  sex.  Carefully  con¬ 
cealing  from  Father  Bernaldi  and  his  friend  Manning  the  new 
passion  thus  awakened  within  him,  he  quietly  sought  the  man¬ 
sion  of  Squire  Clayton,  where  he  was  received  with  deferential 
politeness  by  the  father,  and  cool  indifference  by  the  daughter. 

In  early  childhood  Anna  Clayton  had  been  bereft  of  a 
mother’s  love  and  care,  though  not  before  she  had  given 
promise  of  rare  loveliness,  and  a  gentle,  winning,  affectionate 
disposition.  The  idol  of  the  whole  household,  she  became 
doubly  endeared  to  her  widowed  father,  who,  after  the  death 
of  his  much-loved  wife,  seemed  to  exist  only  for  her.  Ever 
worldly-minded  and  irreligious,  he  had  no  source  of  conso¬ 
lation,  in  his  life-long  bereavement,  save  in  the  gradually 
unfolding  beauty  and  grace  of  his  only  child.  Most  lovingly 
would  his  eye-  follow  her  fairy  form,  as  day  after  day  she 
tripped  lightly  off  to  school,  hand  in  hand  with  her  insepar¬ 
able  and  almost  only  companion,  Robert  Graham  ;  or,  as  he 
sat  in  his  library  overlooking  the  garden,  his  ear  would  be 
regaled  with  her  shouts  of  merry  laughter,  as  she  joyously 
gambolled  with  her  schoolmate.  Thus  Anna  grew  up  a 


✓ 


46 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


cherished  flower,  living  in  the  sunlight  of  her  father’s  love, 
and,  what  she  prized  next,  the  companionship  of  the  noble, 
manly  Ptobert,  son  of  a  much-valued  neighbor. 

But  not  always  were  her  days  to  glide  thus  smoothly 
along.  With  her  expanding  intellect,  her  father  was  pain¬ 
fully  reminded  of  the  insufficiency  of  the  schools  in  their  own 
village,  and  the  consequent  necessity  of  placing  her  where 
she  could  complete  her  education,  and  at  the  same  time  ac¬ 
quire  those  accomplishments  so  suited  to  her  nature.  With 
many  tears  did  the  doting  father  intrust  this,  his  only  treas¬ 
ure,  to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Delafield,  a  lady  of  superior  mind 
and  literary,  attainments,  who,  having  lost  husband  and  child, 
devoted  herself  with  eminent  success  to  the  instruction  of 
young  ladies.  A  better  selection  could  not  have  been  made  ; 
for,  while  assiduously  striving  to  improve  their  minds,-  she 
did  not  forget  that  the  cultivation  of  the  heart  was  no  less 
essential  to  the  welfare  of  her  pupils.  With  her  humble, 
fervent  piety  brightly  illumining  the  path  of  science,  she  led 
them  through  all  its  intricacies  with  the  same  quiet,  gentle 
cheerfulness,  ever  pointing  upward  to  the  great  Source  of  all 
knowledge.  -  1 

The  pure  and  heart-felt  devotion  of  her  teacher  produced 
a  deep  and  lasting  impression  on  Anna’s  susceptible  nature ; 
but  in  vain  did  that  teacher  seek  its  reflection  in  her  heart. 
While  she  acknowledged  its  inestimable  value  to  one  like 
Mrs.  Delafield,  so  bereft  of  earthly  treasures,  her  own  little 
world  was  so  filled  with  happiness  and  love,  she  felt  no  other 
want.  Weeks,  months  and  years,  flew  by,  each  in  their  turn 
laying  at  her  feet  its  tribute  of  earthly  devotion ;  and  her 
heart  was  satisfied.  What  blessing  could  she  crave  that  was 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


47 


not  already  hers  ?  A  father’s  love  smoothing  every  rugged 
path  before  her ;  a  patient,  loving  teacher,  cheering  her  through 
many  a  tedious  maze ;  light-hearted,  merry  companions, 
with  their  exhaustless  school  friendships;  and,  what  must  be 
confessed  as  prized  above  all,  the  ceaseless,  unalterable  affec¬ 
tion  of  her  early  schoolmate,  Robert  Graham,  glowing  in  every 
line  of  his  oft-repeated  letters,  and  gushing  with  irresistible 
tenderness  from  his  lips  when  they  met  —  were  not  these 
sufficient  to  cast  a  bright  halo  around  her  existence,  and  satisfy 
every  longing  of  her  heart  ? 

Anna  left  her  home  a  gay,  thoughtless,  lovely  child,  and 
she  returned  to  that  home,  after  a  few  years’  absence,  realizing 
her  father’s  fondest  anticipations,  in  the  perfection  of  her 
mind,  her  exceeding  beauty,  and  the  simple  purity  of  her 
heart. 

Such  was  she,  when,  mingling  with  gay  and  joyous  spirits 
in  the  rural  festivities  of  a  neighboring  fair,  she  first  saw 
Charles  Duncan.  What  wonder  that  her  pure  mind  shrunk 
from  his  proffered  hand,  or  that  her  indifference  should  grow 
into  disgust,  as  his  repeated  and  unwelcome  visits  at  her 
father’s  house  seemed  to  have  some  deeper  significance  than 
common  courtesy  ?  Her  blind,  infatuated  father  saw  nothing 
repulsive  in  the  handsome,  wealthy,  aristocratic  young  man, 
but  secretly  rejoiced  in  his  evident  admiration  of  his  lovely 
daughter.  His  most  sanguine  expectations  had  never  led  him 
to  imagine  her  the  wife  of  a  titled  nobleman,  though  he  doubted 
not  her  fitness  for  such  a  station ;  but  now  that  it  seemed 
within  her  reach,  he  could  scarce  contain  his  joy,  or  wait  with 
patience  the  desired  consummation.  Dazzled  with  her  bril¬ 
liant  prospects,  the  thought  of  her  heart’s  wild  pleadings 


48 


ANNA  C  LAYTON. 


against  such  a  union,  if  harbored  for  a  moment,  returned  not 
again.  Thus,  when,  with  elated  steps  and  undisguised  satis¬ 
faction,  he  sought  his  daughter  to  communicate  to  her  the 
success  of  all  his  hopes,  how  great  was  his  surprise  and 
chagrin  when  she  avowed,  not  only  her  extreme  repugnance 
to  the  man  of  his  choice,  but  that  -her  heart  was  already 
pledged  to  one  every  way  worthy  of  the  gift,  and  that  his 
sanction  only  was  wanting  to  complete  their  happiness  !  Now, 
for  the  first  time,  did  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  vent  itself 
upon  her  defenceless  head,  with  crushing,  overpowering  weight, 
and  she  fell  senseless  at  his  feet.  Start  not,  thou  self-con- 
demned  father  !  Seek  not  to  restore  the  wild  throbbings  of 
the  heart  thou  hast  well-nigh  broken ;  for  already  has  her 
life’s  great  trial  begun,  and  its  shadow  is  even  now  envelop¬ 
ing  both  her  and  thysejf  within  its  dread  embrace. 

For  many  days  had  Charles  absented  himself,  upon  trifling 
excuses,  ere  the  vigilant  Bernaldi  became  aware  that  some¬ 
thing  unusual  was  absorbing  the  attention  of  his  charge. 
Communicating  at  once  his  suspicions  to  the  holy  father,  they 
were  not  long  in  discovering  the  cause ;  and  great,  indeed, 
was  their  consternation  that  their  plans  should  be  thus  bafiled. 
Frequent  and  earnest  were  their  remonstrances  with  Charles, 
but  it  only  resulted  in  his  greater  determination  to  follow  his 
own  way.  We  must  do  him  the  credit  to  say  that  his  love 
for  the  beautiful  Anna  was  the  purest  feeling  ever  awakened 
within  him,  and  for  the  tithe  checked  his  profligate  course. 


Foiled  in  their  effort  to  convert  Charles  to  their  own  in¬ 
terests,  and  his  fortune  to  the  disposal  of  the  church,  the  wily 
bishop  and  priest  lost  no  time  in  consulting  the  right  rev¬ 
erend  father  from  whom  they  had  received  their  instructions, 


49 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

and  to  whom  was  communicated  the  most  trifling  circum- 

I 

stances  respecting  the  whole  family  of  Claytons.  What  a 
holy  religion,  whose  curious  eyes  thus  pry  with  selfish  intent 
into  the  very  secret  of  our-  thoughts,  and  lay  open  before  the 
greedy,  devouring  eyes  of  her  hirelings  our  most  cherished 
home  associations  ! 

“  We  have  well  considered  the  whole  subject  laid  before 
us,  and,  while  deprecating  the  results,  which  we  doubt  not 
your  most  faithful  efforts  were  exerted  to  prevent,  we  yet  see 
much  occasion  to  advance  the  interests  of  our  most  holy 
church.  We,  therefore,  advise  that  you  offer  no  further 
obstacles  to  the  young  man’s  wishes ;  but,  keeping  fully  in 
his  confidence,  endeavor  earnestly  to  win  to  the  worship  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  not  only  him,  but  the  family  you  men¬ 
tioned.  Let  no  efforts  be  spared  to  this  most  desirable-  end ; 
and,  furthermore,  suffer  no  heretic  to  interfere  in  your  plans, 
or  perform  the  rites  of  marriage,  should  there  be  occasion.” 

Such,  in  part,  was  the  missive  received  in  answer  to  their 
own,  and  their  course  was  now  plain  as  well  as  pleasant. 

“  Come,  Charles,”  said  Father  Bernaldi,  cheerfully,  the 
morning  after  he  had  received  this  letter;  “  you  have  grown 
wonderfully  selfish  lately.  With  all  your  professions  of 
attachment  to  me,  you  have  not  even  offered  to  show  me  your 
treasure.  Come,  now,  let  us  visit  her  to-day,  and,  if  I  find 
her  half  as  beautiful  or  attractive  as  you  represent,  I  shall 
not  have  the  heart  to  oppose  you  any  longer,  even  though  I 
shall  incur  the  displeasure  of  your  father.” 

“  Will  you  promise  me,  good  father,”  eagerly  cried  the 
delighted  Charles,  “  that  on  these  conditions  you  will  lend  me 
your  aid  in  securing  the  treasure  ?  ” 

5 


50 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  I  promise,”  replied  Bernaldi. 

“  But  I  must  forewarn  you  that  she  does  not  favor  my 
suit,”  sadly  answered  Charles,  “  and  only  through  her  father 
can  I  hope  for  success.” 

“  Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,”  laughingly  replied 
Bernaldi ;  “  but,  if  I  am  to  interest  myself  for  you,  you  must 
also  make  me  a  promise.” 

“  I  would  promise  anything,  even  to  the  half  of  my  pos¬ 
sessions,  to  claim  the  hand  of  Anna  Clayton.  What  is  it?  ” 

“  That  when  you  do  claim  that  hand,  your  faithful  friend 
and  companion  shall  bless  the  nuptial  vow,”  feelingly 
responded  the  priest,  with  well-affected  emotion. 

“  That  you  shall,”  said  Charles,  warmly  grasping  his  hand, 
<?  and  may  that  blessed  hour  be  not  far  distant !  ” 

“  Amen  !  ”  uttered  Bernaldi,  with  deep  feeling. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

> 

%  * 

“  0  !  for  a  curse  upon  the  cunning  priest 
Who  conjured  us  together  in  a  yoke 
That  galls  me  now  !  ” 

“  What  is  wedlock  forced  but  a  hell. 

An  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife  ?  ” 

r 

Bessie’s  tender  heart  was  deeply  affected  by  her  interview 
with  her  former  favorite  and  schoolmate,  and  she  vainly 
endeavored,  as  she  turned  restlessly  upon  her  couch,  to  shut 
out  the  vision  of  that  pale,  sad  face,  so  changed  from  the  light¬ 
hearted,  joyous  Anna  of  former  days. 

“  Why  is  it,  Herbert  ?  ”  said  she,  thoughtfully,  as  she  sat 
with  her  husband  cosily  sipping  their  cup  of  coffee  the  next 
morning,  “  why  is  it  that  I  am  loaded  with  blessings  till  my 
cup  of  happiness  seems  almost  overflowing,  while  Anna,  the 
bright  and  beautiful  being  of  school  remembrance,  whose 
radiant  existence  seemed  but  the  prediction  of  future  joy  and 
life-long  happiness,  is  drooping  like  a  faded  flower,  sadly 
wearing  away  her  life,  with  no  ray  of  light  to  cheer  the 
future  ?  ” 

“  Why,  Bessie,”  replied  her  husband,  “  your  sleepless  night 
has  made  you  quite  poetic,  and  the  question  you  have  so 


university  of  Illinois 
library 


52  ANNACLAYTON 

simply  proposed  has  puzzled  wiser  heads  than  jours  or  mine. 
But,  seriously,”  continued  he,  “  we  cannot  doubt  that  beneath 
all  that  suffering  there  is  hidden  some  wise  purpose,  which 
will  yet  be  revealed ;  and  though  we  cannot  fathom  that  wis¬ 
dom,  we  feel  assured  that  ‘  He  doeth  all  things  well.’  But 
come,  wife,”  he  added,  “  I  am  growing  impatient  to  hear  the 
sequel  of  the  sad  tale  you  told  me  last  night.  I  am  going 
out  to  see  some  of  my  good  people;  suppose  I  call,  a  few  hours 
hence,  at  Squire  Clayton’s ;  will  you  be  ready  to  walk  home 
with  me  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  indeed,”  replied  Bessie ;  “  and  I  shall  be  so  glad  to 
have  you  see  Anna !  She  needs  just  such  counsel  as  you  alone 
can  give  her.” 

With  ready  sympathy,  and  warm,  gushing  love,  Bessie  sought 
her  friend,  whom  she  found  reclining  on  an  easy-chair  in  her 
own  chamber.  How  surpassingly  lovely  was  that  face, 
lighted  up  with  joy  at  her  entrance  !  Though  sorrow  had 
marked  its  course  in  unmistakable  lines,  it  could  not  efface 
nature’s  impress ;  and  the  clear,  open  brow,  the  deep,  liquid 
blue  eye,  the  inexpressibly  sweet  mouth,  all  testified  to  the 
beauty  implanted  there,  though  now  shaded  by  the  sad  expres¬ 
sion  of  hopeless  suffering. 

Bessie  grasped  warmly  the  hand  extended  to  welcome  her, 
exclaiming, 

“  Why,  Anna  dear,  your  pale  face  reproaches  me  for 
wearying  you  yesterday.  I  ought  to  have  been  more  con¬ 
siderate.” 

“  No,  Bessie,”  replied  she,  “  you  are  mistaken  if  you  sup 
pose  it  has  injured  me ;  when  you  have  seen  me  a  little  longer 
you  will  become  accustomed  to  my  weakness.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


53 


“  But  indifferent  to  it  I  shall  never  be,”  added  Bessie,  ear¬ 
nestly  ;  “  all  night  long  have  my  thoughts  been  with  you, 
Anna,  and,  though  I  know  not  yet  all  you  have  suffered,  my 
heart  yearns  with  inexpressible  sympathy  to  comfort  you.” 

“  Dear  Bessie,  I  always  loved  you  at  school,  but  now  your 
dear  smiling  face  and  soothing  words  are  as  balm  to  my 
wounded  spirit,  and  lead  me  to  feel  that  I  may  yet  be  cheer¬ 
ful,  though  never  happy.  When  1  have  recalled  all  the  pain¬ 
ful  scenes  through  which  I  have  passed  since  I  saw  you,  you 
will  better  know  how  to  counsel  me  for  the  future.” 

‘  Advice  as  inexperienced  as  mine  would  scarcely  profit 
you,  I  fear,”  replied  Bessie;  “but  in  my  husband  you  will 
find  not  only  a  warm  friend,  but  a  judicious  counsellor;  and 
glad  will  he  be  if  in  any  way  he  can  alleviate  your  trials.” 

“  Blessings  on  you  both !  ”  murmured  Anna,  her  eyes  filling 
with  tears.  “  You  know  not  what  a  relief  it  affords  thus  to 
unveil  the  secrets  of  my  heart  to  you,  whose  sensitive  nature 
responds  to  every  throb  of  anguish  !  ” 

“  Did  you  never  see  or  hear  from  Bobert  after  he  left  this 
country?”  asked  Bessie,  anxious  to  learn  more  of  her  heart’s 
history. 

“  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  of  Robert,”  said  Anna,  “  for, 
henceforth,  as  in  the  past,  my  lips  and  heart  will  be  sealed  on 
that  subject.  To  you,  the  only  one  in  whose  ear  I  dare 
breathe  his.  name,  I  can  assert,  confident  of  belief,  that  the 
affection  of  a  sister  for  a  long-lost  and  much-injured  brother 
is  not  more  pure  than  that  I  bear  to  Robert  Graham.  I  tore 
his  image  from  my  heart  only  when  I  became  a  wife;  and 
to  me  he  exists  not,  save  in  the  far-off  regions  of  dream¬ 
land.” 


5* 


54 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  You  left  off  yesterday  with  Robert’s  departure,”  said 
Bessie.  “  Tell  me  what  became  of  you  then.” 

“  For  many  days,”  continued  Anna,  “  I  seemed  under  the 
influence  of  some  terrible  nightmare  —  ghostly  phantoms 
flitting  around  my  bed,  pointing  at  me  their  long,  spectral 
fingers,  and  hissing,  with  fearful  distinctness,  in  my  ear, 
‘  never  !  ’  while  I  lay  powerless  to  resist  their  hideous  orgies, 
trembling  and  quivering  in  every  fibre.  But  far  more  dread¬ 
ful  were  the  realities  of  returning  consciousness,  when,  sever¬ 
ing  every  tie  that  bound  the  past,  my  poor,  misguided  father 
offered  me  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  his  ambition.  During 
all  the  preparations  for  the  event,  to  which  they  had  obtained, 
I  know  not  how,  my  forced  consent,  life  to  me  was  a  blank, 
on  which  I  could  only  see  written,  in  burning  characters;  the 
immolation  of  its  victim.  The  only  relief  I  craved,  in  this 
self-sacrifice,  was  that  I  might  be  permitted  to  spend  in  sol¬ 
itude  the  intervening  time,  rid  of  the  presence  of  one,  now 
more  repulsive  than  ever,  who  must  soon  receive  my  perjured 
vows.  The  groans  and  tears,  struggles  and  writhings  of 
spirit,  in  which  I  passed  those  weeks,  I  cannot  even  now  recall 
without  shuddering.  But  at  length  I  nerved  myself  for  the 
trial,  and  went  forth  at  their  bidding  to  take  upon  me  life’s 
great  burden. 

“  As  I  had  requested,  no  reference  had  been  made  to  me 
in  their  arrangements ;  and  when  my  father  tenderly  assisted 
me  into  the  carriage,  and  took  his  place  beside  me,  I  had  not 
courage  to  ask  our  destination. 

“  ‘  We  are  going  to  the  city,’  said  he,  as  if  in  answer  to  my 
thoughts,  and  gently  taking  my  hand ;  ‘  I  thought  a  little 
journey  would  benefit  you,  and  after  the  ceremony  is  over 


V 


ANNA  CLAYTON.  55 

everything  is  in  readiness  to  take  you  wherever  you  wish. 
My  daughter  will  find  that  her  obedience '  has  been  appre¬ 
ciated,  and  will  not  go  unrewarded.’ 

“  ‘  If  my  father  is  satisfied,’  said  I,  scarcely  daring  to  trust 
my  voice,  ‘  it  is  sufficient.’ 

“  ‘  I  trust  you  will  be  convinced  that  in  choosing  for  you  I 
have  sought  only  your  own  happiness,’  added  he. 

“  I  could  not  respond,  and  we  rode  in  silence  till  the  spires 
of  the  distant  city,  coming  in  view,  reminded  him  that  he  had 
yet  a  duty  to  perform. 

“  ‘  So  liberal  and  honorable  has  Charles  proved  himself  in 
all  the  preliminaries,’  at  length  said  my  father,  ‘  that  I  could 
not,  in  common  courtesy,  refuse  the  only  favor  he  asked ;  and 
the  marriage  ceremony  will  be  performed  by  a  very  dear 
friend  oT  his,  in  the  chapel  where  he  has  worshipped.’ 

“  ‘  Married  by  a  Catholic  priest,  in  a  Catholic  church, 
father?’  asked  I,  incredulously. 

“  ‘  What  matters  it,  my  daughter,’  replied  he,  evasively, 
‘  who  officiates,  provided  the  laws  recognize  his  authority  ? 
You  do  not  by  this  means  bind  yourself  to  have  any  further 
connection  with  them ;  and  Charles  assures  me  it  is  the  only 
concession  he  will  ever  ask.’ 

“‘Be  it  so,’  said  I,  bitterly;  ‘but  remember,  father,  the 
responsibility  of  this  act  must  rest  with  you.’ 

“  The  scene  of  that  heartless  marriage,  and  the  subsequent 
developments  of  Charles  Duncan’s  character,  I  cannot  repeat. 
That  he  is  now  a  drunken,  dissipated  profligate,  is  only  too 
well  known.  I  ought  to  mention,  that  after  the  birth  of  our 
dear  little  Charlie  the  same  farce  was  again  played  as  at  our 
marriage,  and  he  was  christened  by  a  Catholic  priest.  Sweet 


56 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


little  fellow !  his  innocent  prattle  is  the  only  joy  to  which  my 
heart  responds.  I  forgot  to  say  that  just  after  our  marriage 
I  read  in  a  newspaper,  that  I  chanced  to  find,  a  notice  of  the 
marriage  of  Robert  Graham  with  some  distinguished  heiress.” 

“  Anna,  you  have  indeed  passed  through  much  suffering,” 
said  Bessie,  as  the  former  ceased  speaking,  “  and  I  fear  will 
yet  see  much  more.  You  mentioned  that  Mr.  Duncan  (for  I 
cannot  call  him  your  husband)  is  heir  to  large  estates.  Where 
are  they  ?  ” 

“  In  England,  but  he  has  never  informed  me  particular^ 
about  it ;  he  seems  to  shun  any  inquiries,  and  even  told  me, 
tauntingly,  in  one  of  his  drunken  turns,  that  he  never  intended 
to  have  me  go  there,  — that  he  meant  to  go  back,  some  day, 
and  marry  a  great  lady.”  ^ 

“  Is  it  possible  he  can  thus  abuse  you,  my  poor  Anna  ?  ” 
replied  Bessie. 

“  0,  I  should  not  dare  to  tell  you  one  half  of  the  ill  treat¬ 
ment  I  receive  from  him,”  said  Anna,  as  the  tears  coursed 
down  her  cheeks.  “  I  have  succeeded  in  getting  a  partial 
promise  from  him  that  he  will  leave  me  and  return  to  his  own 
family.  Would  he  only  do  so,  it  would  lighten  my  heart, 
and  I  might  yet  find  much  comfort  in  living  for  dear  little 
Charlie.” 

“  But  how  does  your  father  endure  to  see  you  suffer, 
knowing,  as  he  must,  that  he  caused  the  misery  ?  ”  asked 
Bessie. 

“  My  poor  father  now  sees  and  acknowledges  his  error,” 
replied  Anna,  “  and  bitterly  does  he  reproach  himself  for 
every  pang  I  bear.  His  devotion  to  me  and  little  Charlie  is 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


57 


really  affecting.  But  the  poisoned  arrow  has  entered  my 
heart,  and  will  ever  leave  its  sting  behind.” 

“  0,  that  I  could  lead  you,  dear  Anna,  to  the  antidote  for 

that  poison  —  to  that  fountain  whose  waters  would  assuage 

§ 

your  grief,  and  sweeten  every  bitter  cup  that  you  must  drink  f  ” 
fervently  exclaimed  Bessie. 

“  It  is  in  vain,  Bessie,”  replied  she,  sadly  shaking  her 
head.  “  While  in  health  and  happiness  I  sought  for  none 
save  earthly  treasures ;  and  now  I  cannot,  if  I  would,  look 
beyond  the  world  I  have  chosen,  hoping  to  find  any  comfort. 
—  But  you  remind  me  of  Mrs.  Delafield,”  continued  Anna, 
anxious  to  change  the  subject.  “  Dear,  good  woman,  she  has 
twice  spent  her  vacatiou  with  me  since  she  learned  of  my 
unhappy*  marriage ;  and  such  a  blessing  has  she  been,  not  only 
to  me,  but  to  my  poor  father,  that  we  could  scarcely  bear  to 
have  her  return  to  her  school,  I  hope  there  is  some  prospect 
that  she  will  yet  be  to  me,  what  she  has  ever  seemed  —  a 
mother .” 

“  I  should  rejoice  for  you,  Anna,  if  that  should  indeed  prove 
so,”  replied  Bessie.  “  But  I  see  my  husband  coming  for  me, 
and,. though  he  wishes  much  to  know  you,  he  must  call  when 
you  are  less  fatigued.  We  hope  to  welcome  you  into  our 
little  home  circle  as  soon  as  you  are  able  to  ride  there.” 

“  But  before  that  you  will  come  to  see  me  every  day,  won’t 
you,  Bessie  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  about  that,”  said  Bessie,  smiling  and  kissing 
her  pale  cheek;  “but  you  will  see  me  often  enough,  I  ven¬ 
ture.” 


Droopingly  as  bends  the  lily  before  the  storm  did  the  fair 


58 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


and  fragile  form  of  Anna  Duncan  yield  to  the  blasts  of 

drunken  fury  with  which  her  husband,  in  his  madness,  assailed 

her.  In  one  of  these  moods  he  staggered  into  her  room, 

about  an  hour  after  Bessie’s  departure.  Calmly  waiting  till 

his  violence  had  exhausted  itself,  and  reason  was  once  more 

returning,  Anna,  with  mild  though  resolute  tone,  exclaimed, 
^  * 

“  Charles  Duncan,  I  have  suffered  this  too  long  already ;  why 
do  you  not  keep  your  promise,  and  leave  me  ?  ” 

“  Leave  you,  my  ducky !  ”  replied  he,  in  maudlin  tones ; 
“  why,  you  could  n’t  live  without  me  !  Iam  your  husband,  you 
know  ;  every  woman  loves  her  husband,  —  ha,  ha,  ha  !  No,  I 
won’t  leave  you,  I  promise.” 

Sickened  beyond  measure,  Anna  covered  her  face  with  both 
hands  to  shut  out  the  vision,  and  large  drops  trickled  down 
through  her  wan  fingers. 

“  Come,  now,  none  of  that  snivelling !  ”  said  he,  angrily. 
“You  know  I  hate  it,  and,  what’s  more,  I  won’t  have  it! 
You ’ve  done  nothing  but  snivel  ever  since  I  knew  you.  Now, 
if  you  don’t  stop  !  ”  said  he,  shaking  his  hand,  menacingly  — 

“  Charles,”  interrupted  she,  drying  her  tears,  “I  want  you 
to  sit  dowir'and  calmly  listen  to  me.  You  have  often  hinted 
to  me  that  you  are  laboring  under  some  embarrassments, 
which  I  could,  if  disposed,  relieve.” 

“  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,”  said  he,  drawing  a  chair 
near  her,  and  brightening  up,  “  I  have  been  pretty  hard  up 
lately,  and  Manning  threatens  to  expose  me  to  the  old  man  if 
I  don’t  pay  up.  IIow  the  deuce  he  manages  to  win,  all  the 
time,  I  don’t  see,  when  I  used  to  be  the  best  player.” 

“  Philip  Manning  has  always  been  your  evil  genius, 
Charles,”  replied  Anna. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


59 


“  Now,  stop  that  talk  !  Phil ’s  a  good  fellow ;  he  only  wants 
what  belongs  to  him,  and  that  he  shall  have,  hy  fair  means 
or  foul.  I ’m  not  the  man  to  sneak  off  from  doing  the  thing 
that ’s  right.  If  you  don’t  choose  to  bleed  the  old  codger  for 
me,  I  shall  do  it  myself — that’s  all.” 

“  What  is  your  debt  to  Manning?  ”  faintly  asked  Anna. 

“  He ’s  got  my  I  0  U’s  for  a  plump  thousand,”  returned 
he,  “  and  he  would  n’t  object  to  a  hundred  more  just  like  ’em. 
But  I  ’m  afraid  the  old  man  ’ll  cut  me  off,  if  he  knows  it.” 

“  Did  n’t  you  tell  me  your  father  had  written  lately  for 
you  to  come  home  ?  ”  said  Anna. 

“  Yes,  he  did,  if  I  would  go  alone,  and  not  return  here 
again.  The  fact  is,  he  won’t  acknowledge  our  marriage  ;  and, 
to  own  up,  I ’m  sick  of  it  myself,”  said  the  brutish  fellow. 

“  Well,  then,”  replied  Anna,  nothing  daunted  by  this  cold¬ 
blooded  declaration,  “  if  I  will  get  for  you  the  money  to 
satisfy  Mr.  Manning’s  claim,  will  you  leave  me,  and  go  back 
to  your  father  ?  ” 

“  Not  so  fast,  ducky  !  You  see  there  are  several  other  little 
items  to  be  taken  care  of,  such  as  my  wine-bill,  &c.  &c.  A 
man  cannot  break  up  in  a  hurry  ;  and,  besides,  you  know  you 
would  pine  yourself  to  death  for  me,”  added  he,  mockingly. 

Unable  to  conceal  her  detestation  of  the  man,  she  hastily 
left  the  room  to  seek  little  Charlie,  whose  sweet  caresses  soon 
restored  her  wonted  serenity. 

“  See  here,”  said  Charles,  following  her  into  the  nursery ; 
“  I  ’ve  just  thought  o’  something.  If  you  ’ll  do  what  you  said 
up  stairs,  and  let  me  take  this  little  chapel  ’ll  go  to-morrow.” 

Anna  started  as  at  a  viper’s  sting,  and,  clasping  her  little 
boy  in  her  arms,  exclaimed,  “  Must  you  add  this  insult  to  the 


60 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


abuse  already  heaped  upon  me?  I  would  rather  see  this 
child  laid  in  His  grave  than  live  in  your  polluted  presence !  ” 

“  I  declare  !  What  a  good  actress  you  would  make  !  ”  taunt¬ 
ingly  replied  he.  “  Positively,  you  would  eclipse  the  divine 
Ellsler  herself.  Let  the  brat  go,”  said  he,  as  the  little  fellow 
shrank  away  from  him.  “  But  mind  —  no  more  of  your  stuff, 
ma’am  !  ”  shaking  his  fist  in  Anna’s  face. 

The  broken-hearted  wife  retired  to  her  own  room,  and, 
throwing  herself  in  hopeless  grief  upon  her  bed,  wept  till  her 
exhausted  nature  found  relief  in  dreamy  forgetfulness. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

*  % 

“  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled 
Yarn,  good  and  ill  together.” 

“  Which  is  the  villain  ?  Let  mo  see  his  eyes  ; 

That,  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 

I  may  avoid  him.”  Shakspeare. 

Anna’s  hopes  had  not  been  falsely  raised,  and  she  felt  that 
she  had  yet  many  comforts  left,  as  she  welcomed  beneath  her 
father’s  roof  the  dearly-loved  teacher  of  her  school-days,  now 
bound  by  a  closer  tie.  The  cheerful  piety  and  heart-felt  sym¬ 
pathy  with  which  Mrs.  Delafield  had  soothed  Anna  in  her 
hours  of  trial  and  darkness,  during  the  vacations  she  had 
spent  at  Squire  Clayton’s,  had  only  served  to  cement  their 
affection  for  each  other ;  and  it  did  not  escape  the  watchful 
eye  of  her  father  that  with  each  separation  a  deeper  shade 
of  sadness  seemed  to  rest  upon  his  daughter.  Nor  was  he 
long  in  discovering  that  it  was  not  wholly  for  his  daughter  he 
so  eagerly  besought  a  return  of  these  visits.  His  own  heart 
throbbed  with  a  new  life  as  it  acknowledged  the  gentle  influ¬ 
ences  of  such  companionship.  With  his  judgment  approving 
the  choice  of  his  heart,  he  sought  the  presence  of  Anna’s 
teacher,  and,  with  manly,  dignified,  yet  persuasive  eloquence, 
pleaded  for  a  life-long  happiness  with  her.  The  result  has 

6 


62 


ANNA  CL  At  TON. 


been  already  anticipated  in  the  ■welcome  given  by  Anna  to 
her  new  step-mother. 

For  a  few  months  the  dove  of  peace  seemed  nestling  within 
that  happy  circle.  A  tiny,  beautiful  babe  had  come  among 
them,  to  claim  a  welcome  to  which  all  hearts  had  responded ; 
and  little  Charlie’s  joy  knew  no  bounds  when  assured,  again 
and  again,  that  the  little  wee  thing  in  his  grandma’s  lap 
was  really  his  own  little  sister,  and  would  by  and  by  be  big 
enough  to  play  with  him.  The  love  which  then  welled  up 
in  his  baby  heart  for  the  little  helpless  being  seemed  inter¬ 
woven  with  his  very  existence,  and  never  for  a  moment,  in 
after  life,  ceased  its  devotion. 

The  sorrowfully  reproachful  manner  with  which  Mrs.  Clay¬ 
ton  ever  regarded  him  caused  Charles  Duncan  to  shrink 
as  much  as  possible  from  her  presence.  Consequently,  he 
would  absent  himself  for  days,  and  sometimes  weeks,  till 
Anna  had  nearly  regained  her  health,  amid  the  quiet  and 
happiness  surrounding  her. 

To  her  dear  and  valued  friend  Bessie  this  was  a  source  of 
unmingled  thankfulness  ;  for  her  heart  was  ever  yearning  with 
a  sister’s  love,  to  soothe  the  sorrows  and  heal  the  wounded 
spirit  of  one  to  whom  she  was  so  closely  bound.  Of  late  the 
cares  of  each  had  interrupted  the  intercourse  that  both  so 
highly  prized ;  for  in  Bessie’s  happy  home,  also,  a  new  life 
had  awakened  the  joyous  echo  of  a  mother’s  love,  and  stirred 
within  its  very  depths  the  fountain  of  her  exhaustless  affec¬ 
tion.  And  with  no  less  tenderness  did  the  happy  father 
breathe  a  blessing  over  his  first-born,  as  he  clasped  to  his 
heart  the  tiny  treasure. 

Old  Bridget  was  not  so  quiet  in  her  demonstrations  of  joy, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


63 


* 


on  the  advent  of  this  new  claimant  to  her  affection  and  care. 
“  Och,  the  darlint !  ”  exclaimed  she,  as  she  took  it  from  the 
arms  of  the  nurse  and  kissed  its  velvet  cheek ;  “  it  is  n’t  the 
likes  o’  yees  these  old  eyes  have  looked  upon  this  many  a 
day.  Shure  but ’t  is  a  blessed  ciayther,  the  very  image  of  its 
mother  !  Arrah,  darlint,  but  ye  shall  niver  know  want  while 
these  hands  can  serve  yees.  And  what  name  will  ye  christen 
it  with,  sir  ?  ”  said  she  to  the  father,  who  stood  smiling  at  her 
earnestness. 

“  Should  not  the  bud  receive  the  name  of  the  flower  that 
bore  it  ?  ”  he  asked,  turning  to  the  pale  face  upon  the  bed. 
And,  receiving  a  smiling  assent,  he  replied  to  Bridget,  “  Her 
name  is  Bessie,  and,  if  her  life  sustains  all  the  sweetness, 
goodness  and  purity,  bequeathed  in  that  name,  then  will  she 
indeed  be  worthy  of  it.” 

“  May  the  Blissid  Virgin  keep  and  defind  her  from  all 
harm !  ”  solemnly  responded  Bridget,  not  exactly  compre¬ 
hending  his  reply. 

“  Hush,  Bridget !  ”  sternly  replied  Mr.  Lindsey.  “  Curse 
not  my  child’s  ear  with  such  blasphemies  !  Call  rather  upon 
one  who  has  power  to  save,  and  not  the  miserable  substitute 
your  priests  offer  you  !  ” 

“  It ’s  not  the  likes  of  a  poor,  ignorant  crayther  that  can 
rason  with  your  riverence,”  said  Bridget,  rising,  with  offended 
dignity,  to  leave  the  room  ;  “  but,  with  your  lave,  the  big  folks 
yonder  have  had  incense  burnt  and  mass  said,  and  the  chris¬ 
tening  all  done  as  it  should  be,  by  the  praast,  thrue  Christians 
that  they  are and  she  shut  the  door  with  no  gentle  touch 
as  she  returned  to  her  kitchen. 

“  How  strangely  infatuated  are  the  poor  victims  of  Popish 


64 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


delusion !  ”  remarked  Mr.  Lindsey ;  “no  servant  could  be 
kinder,  more  attached  and  faithful,  than  Bridget ;  and  yet, 
touch  her  religion,  and  she  forgets  everything  else  in  her 
anger.  Surely  these  priests  have  a  most  solemn  account  to 
render  of  their  responsibility.” 

“  What  she  said  about  Squire  Clayton’s  family,  troubles 
me,”  said  Mrs.  Lindsey ;  “  I  fear  Anna  has  had  some  trials 
with  her  Catholic  husband.  Do  you  know  anything  about  it, 
nurse  ?  ” 

“  I  have  heard  some  reports  from  there,”  replied  the  nurse, 
“  but  of  very  small  consequence  to  you  compared  to  your 
health.  I  must  positively  forbid  your  talking  or  thinking 
any  more  of  them  at  present.  You  cannot,  if  you  would, 
alter  the  circumstances  of  your  friend.  The  care  of  your 
own  health  is  now  your  most  important  duty,  and  you  must 
keep  your  thoughts  quiet  and  calm.  Excuse  me,  dear  Mrs. 
Lindsey,”  continued  she,  “  but  you  must,  for  once  in  your  life, 
be  selfish ;  excluding  everything  that  is  not  perfectly  agreeable 
and  pleasant.” 

“  That  is  right,  good  nurse,”  chimed  in  Mr.  Lindsey ;  “  I 
am  sorry  I  should  have  alluded  to  such  an  exciting  subject, 
but  will  try  to  make  amends  in  future  for  my  indiscretion.” 

“  There  have  been  strange  doings  at  Squire  Clayton’s,  if  I 
am  rightly  informed,”  said. the  nurse  to  Mr.  Lindsey,  at  the 
table,  that  day ;  Mr.  Duncan  came  home,  two  or  three  days 
after  the  birth  of  their  little  daughter,  and  insisted  that  it 
should  be  christened,  with  great  ceremony,  in  the  presence  of 
as  many  as  chose  to  attend.  Fearing  the  effect  of  his  anger 
on  the  health  and  even  life  of  Mrs.  Duncan,  should  they 
refuse,  Squire  Clayton  and  his  wife  reluctantly  consented  to 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


65 


it,  jn  condition  that  Anna  should  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  the 
strange  proceedings,  and  molested  by  neither  her  husband  nor 
the  priest.  The  news  was  quickly  spread,  and  many  went 
out  of  mere  curiosity  to  witness  the  mumbling  prayers,  the 
incense-burning,  and  the  christening  performed  with  solemn 
mockery,  by  the  well-paid  priest.  In  the  afternoon  the  Cath¬ 
olics  assembled  in  the  same  room  to  say  mass ;  no  one  daring 
to  interpose,  lest  the  maddened  husband  and  his  accomplice 
should  revenge  themselves  by  intruding  into  the  sick  chamber 
of  Mrs.  Duncan.” 

“  This  is  indeed  a  strange  story !  ”  exclaimed  Mr.  Lindsey. 
“  I  was  not  aware  that  the  Pope’s  minions  would  come  with 
such  bold  and  rapid  strides  into  the  very  heart  of  our  home 
circles.  I  am  persuaded  that  Mr.  Duncan  is  guided  by  a 
more  powerful  motive  than  self-gratification,  in  his  conduct. 
He  has  not  sufficient  strength  of  mind  or  purpose  to  meet 
many  obstacles,  and  therefore,  in  overcoming  the  united  oppo¬ 
sition  of  Squire  Clayton  and  his  excellent  wife,  he  must  have 
been  urged  on  by  some  secret  and  influential  adviser.” 

“  He  scarcely  ever  comes  home,  now,”  added  she,  “  except 
in  company  with  one  or  two  friends,  who,  many  suppose  are 
disguised  priests.” 

“  I  am  grieved  to  hear  such  accounts,”  replied  Mr.  Lind¬ 
sey.  “  My  parish  visits  lead  me  in  other  directions,  so  that  I 
am  seldom  in  that  neighborhood,  and  consequently  was  not 
apprised  of  the  state  of  things  there.  I  greatly  fear  there 
is  some  evil  machination  on  foot,  by  these  emissaries  of  Satan, 
to  draw  the  whole  of  that  family  into  their  snares.  My  wife 
must  not  know  of  this  matter  further  than  the  unguarded 
remarks  of  Bridget  informed  her.” 

6* 


66 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  I  shall  endeavor  to  keep  Bridget  from  the  sick  room  as 
much  as  possible,”  said  the  nurse,  as  she  rose  from  the  table, 
“  for  I  have  my  suspicions  that  she  has  been  tampered  with 
by  these  priests;  anti  it  might  be  for  their  interests,  you  know, 
to  endanger  the  life  of  pne  who  has  such  an  influence  on 
Mrs.  Duncan  as  your  wife.” 

“  To  what  an  extent  will  they  not  carry  their  nefarious 
schemes  !  ”  exclaimed  Mr.  Lindsey,  shudderingly ;  “  this  mat¬ 
ter  must  be  looked  into  at  once,  and  by  the  proper  authorities.” 

For  once  report  had  not  exaggerated,  or  even  attained  the 
truth,  as  those  who  witnessed  the  disgusting  details  of  the 
artful  priest’s  manoeuvring  with  his  willing  dupe  could 
testify.  When  their  object  had  been  accomplished,  even 
beyond  their  most  sanguine  expectations,  Charles  Duncan 
returned  in  triumph,  with  the-  priest  who  accompanied  him,  to 

the  very  holy  father,  the  Bishop  of  B - ,  who,  as  a  reward 

for  his  obedient  perseverance,  gave  him  absolution  for  all  sins 
committed,  and  an  indulgence  for  the  future.  Weeks  glided 
into  months,  and  still  were  the  nightly  scenes  of  drunken 
revelry,  gambling  and  debauch,  continued,  when  he  was  sud¬ 
denly  summoned  home  by  news  of  the  sickness  of  his  father. 
With  the  advice  of  his  friends,  he  therefore  determined  that 
he  would  now  carry  into  effect  his  long-promised  separation 
from  his  unhappy  wife.  The  deep-laid  plot  which  these 
friends,  in  connection  with  his  spiritual  advisers  at  home,  were 
maturing,  was  as  yet  unknown  to  him ;  or,  depraved  as  he 
was,  he  might  have  shrunk  from  meeting  the  truthful  gaze  of 
his  much-injured  wife,  or  the  innocent  glances  of  the  sweet 
children. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


67 


A  few  quiet  months  in  the  cheerful  society  of  her  beloved 
step-mother  had  done  much  to  restore  to  Anna’s  cheek  the 
bloom  of  health  ;  and  the  ceaseless  happiness  she  derived  from 
watching  the  rapid  progress  of  little  Charlie,  or  the  constantly 
increasing  loveliness  of  Myrtie,  the  new  pet,  had  contributed 
no  less  to  the  serenity  of  her  mind. 

Mrs.  Clayton  was  gazing  from  her  window,  one  pleasant 
afternoon,  upon  the  group  under  the  great  tree  in  the  yard. 
Anna,  in  her  simple  loose  robe  of  white,  sat  upon  a  stool 
Charlie  brought  for  her,  that  she  might  be  within  his  reach, 
while  he  ornamented  her  rich  auburn  hair  with  flowers  of 
every  variety  of  color,  every  now  and  then  lovingly  caressing 
her,  —  the  baby  crowing  meanwhile  in  Susan’s  arms,  who  could 
not  refrain  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  grotesque,  gypsy-like 
appearance  of  her  mistress’  head-dress,  —  when,  suddenly,  with 
an  exclamation  of  fear,  and  a  blanched  cheek,  Anna  rose  hastily 
and  sought  the  house,  followed  by  Susan  and  the  children. 
Immediately  Charles  Duncan  alighted  from  his  carriage,  and 
was  met  at  the  door  by  Mrs.  Clayton,  who  sternly  bade  him 
enter  and  explain  the  object  of  his  visit. 

“  Why,  really,  ma’am,”  exclaimed  Charles,  attempting  to 
rally  himself  from  the  effects  of  her  cold  reception,  and  Anna’s 
evident  avoidance,  which  had  not  escaped  his  notice  as  he 
approached  the  house ;  “  really,  one  would  think  you  were  all 
fleeing  from  some  monster,  instead  of  giving  a  fitting  reception 
to  an  honest  man,  who  seeks  his  wife !  ” 

“  And  what  reception  should  you  consider  befitting  one  like 
yourself,  sir?”  demanded  she,  bitterly  and  haughtily. 

“  0,  come  now,  don’t  give  us  any  of  your  nonsense  ! 


* 


68 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


replied  he;  “I ’ve  come  to  see  my  wife.  Where  is  she,  —  up 
stairs?”  and  he  rose  to  ascertain  for  himself. 

“  Stay  a  moment,”  said  Mrs.  Clayton ;  “  she  is  not  there, 
but  I  will  call  her,  if  it  must  be.” 

Anna’s  face  was  deadly  white  as  she  answered  the  sum¬ 
mons,  and  entered  the  presence  of  her  husband. 

“You  all  seem  to  avoid  me,”  said  he,  in  a  softer  and  more 
serious  tone  than  was  his  wont,  “  and  I  cannot,  in  all  honesty, 
say  that  I  am  surprised.  But,  as  I  have  come  to  bid  you 
farewell,  with  an  assurance  that  you  will  never  be  troubled 
with  my  presence  again,  I  trust  you  will  not  refuse  me  the 
satisfaction  of  parting  in  peace.” 

So  unexpected,  and  wholly  unlike- himself,  were  his  words 
and  manner,  that  both  his  hearers  were  too  much  astonished 
to  reply. 

“  It  is  even  so,”  continued  he.  “  To-morrow  I  leave  for 
dear  old  England,  and,  as  I  have  been  but  too  often  assured 
of  your  wishes,  it  is  not  my  intention  ever  to  return.  So,  give 
yourselves  up  to  your  rejoicing,”  added  he,  with  a  bitter 
smile,  “  for  I  seek  another  home  and  a  fairer  bride.  But  let 
me  have  one  look  at  the  children  before  I  go.” 

“  Surely,  Charles,”  exclaimed  the  pure-minded  wife,  “  you 
will  take  measures  for  a  divorce  before  you  wed  another.” 

“  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  jealous,  as  true  as  I  live  !  I  always  thought 
you  liked  me,  in  spite  of  all  you  said.  Come,  now,  you  look 
so  charming,  I ’ve  a  good  mind  to  let  the  old  man  die,  and 
stay  here  with  you,  you  feel  so  bad  about  my  going  away.  I 
know  you  do —  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  that  was  capital !  ” 

“  You  misunderstood  me,  Charles,”  replied  Anna;  “  I  did 
not  express  any  wish  for  you  to  stay,  nor  do  I  feel  any.  That 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


69 


you  will  leave  me  to  enjoy  what  little  peace  I  can,  with  my 
children  and  friends,  is,  and  has  been,  my  greatest  wish.  But 
to  trample  on  the  laws  of  God  and  man  is  dreadful.” 

“  Well  said,  my  little  preacher,”  said  he,  tauntingly,  for 
he  was  vexed  at  her  reply ;  “  but  have  you  yet  to  learn  that 
our  most  holy  church  can  absolve  her  sons  from  a  marriage 
contracted  with  a  heretic  ?  I  declare,  what  beauties !  ”  ex¬ 
claimed  he,  as  Susan  brought  in  the  baby,  with  Charlie  cling¬ 
ing  to  her  dress.  “  Come  here,  Charlie,  and  kiss  me,  for  I 
am  going  away  off,”  said  he,  holding  out  his  hand. 

“  I  shan’t  go  near  you !  —  I  don’t  love  you,  ’cause  you  are 
a  naughty  papa,  and  I ’m  glad  you  ’re  going  away  !  ”  shouted 
the  little  fellow,  as  he  ran  out  of  the  room. 

“  Very  well,  I  see  how  he  has  been  trained!  ”  and  bitter¬ 
ness  deep  and  strong  sprang  into  the  heart  that  had  hitherto 
been  merely -cold  and  worldly. 

No  forced  compliments  were  uttered,  and  the  gates  of  this 
Eden  closed  upon  the  departure  of  one  who  had  well-nigh 
destroyed  its  happiness ;  as  did  those  of  Paradise  shut  out 
the  fallen  beings  who  had  forfeited  all  its  bliss.  Would  that 
it  had  been,  as  with  them,  for  ever  and  ever ! 


> 


CHAPTER  IX. 


“You  Jesuits  are  strong  in  a  thousand  materials  —  money,  credit, 
intrigue  —  all  carnal  weapons  ;  but  you  are  weak  in  God.” 

Michelet. 

- - - “  rOur  stratagems 

Must  branch  forth  into  manifold  deceits, 

Endless  devices,  bottomless  conclusions.” 

Not  many  miles  distant  from  Beechgrove,  surrounded  on 
all  sides,  save  one,  by  a  dense  forest,  whose  impenetrable  gloom 
was  never  pierced  but  for  deeds  of  darkness,  stood  an  ancient 
chateau,  once  the  residence  of  an  unfortunate  nobleman,  who, 
wearied  and  disgusted  with  life’s  realities,  bequeathed  all  his 
noble  domains  to  the  church,  and  sunk  himself  into  the  obscur¬ 
ity  of  a  monastic  life.  This  chateau,  with  the  additional 
appendages  of  a  cloister  and  chapel,  had  been  occupied 
several  years  as  a  summer  residence  by  the  priestly  function¬ 
aries  of  the  holy  mother  church,  the  cloister  immuring  with¬ 
in  its  solid  walls  those  who,  either  by  compulsion  or  choice, 
crucified  themselves  to  the  world  in  their  ascetic  occupations. 

In  a  sumptuously  furnished  room  of  this  princely  residence, 
near  a  table,  on  which  were  scattered  various  papers  and 
implements  for  writing,  sat  two  persons  in  earnest  discussion. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


71 


At  length  one  of  them  rose,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
exclaimed, 

“  I  have  done  my  utmost  to  persuade  him,  but  he  still 
clings  to  the  hope  that  that  foolish  son  of  his  will  return ;  and 
then  —  a  truce  to  all  we  can  do  !  ”  snapping  his  fingers. 

“  One  trial  more,  my  good  Alphonso,”  replied  the  other, 
familiarly  patting  his  shoulder ;  “  here  is  the  letter  which  will 
settle  the  matter  with  him,  if  you  manage  right.” 

“  Yes,  but  suppose  that  good-for-nothing  fellow  should  take 
it  into  his  head  to  come  just  in  time  to  betray  us?”  queried 
he. 

“  Get  but  that  writing  signed,”  returned  his  companion, 
with  decision,  “  the  rest  is  easily  accomplished.  Alphonso 
Bernaldi  is  not  unused  to  administering  medicines  to  the  sick,” 
continued  he,  significantly. 

“  It  shall  be  done,  holy  father,”  replied  Bernaldi,  retiring. 

The  morning  sun,  with  its  life-invigorating,  soul-inspiring 
beams,  waking  anew  the  joyous  notes  of  the  forest  songster, 
and  brightening  into  fresh  existence  all  animate  and  inanimate 
nature,  tried  in  vain  to  cheer  with  one  radiant  glance  the 
lonely  apartment  of  sickness  and  suffering.  Its  light  shone 
but  faintly  through  the  crimson  draperies  so  arranged  as  to 
exclude  every  ray,  and  barely  sufficed  to  reveal  to  the  mute 
nurse  the  different  objects  within  her  room. 

“  Has  Charles  come  ?  ”  again  echoed,  in  feeble  tones,  from 
the  bed. 

“  Your  son  has  not  arrived,  and  I  cannot  flatter  you  with 
any  false  hopes  of  ever  seeing  him  again,”  replied  the  nurse, 
who  had  received  her  instructions. 


72 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  It  must  have  been  a  dream,  then,”  tremulously  added 
he,  “  but  I  thought  Charles  came  and  asked  my  forgiveness, 
and  we  were  reconciled.  I  wish  he  would  come !  ” 

“  If  all  your  friends  had  deserted  you  as  your  son  has,  Sir 
William,  you  would  have  reason  to  discard  them.  It  is  but 
a  poor  return  for  all  their  kindness  and  attention  to  mourn 
thus  for  one  who  does  not  wish  or  deserve  your  notice,”  an¬ 
swered  the  cunning  Jesuit. 

“  I  don’t  know  but  you  are  right,”  said  he,  with  a  sigh, 
“  but  it  seems  to  me  one’s  own  son  ought  to  be  nearer  than 
strangers.” 

“Not  if  that  son  proves  himself  utterly  heartless  and 
worthless,”  she  replied.  “  To  every  good  Catholic  the  inter¬ 
ests  of  his  church  ought  to  be  dearer  than  all  others ;  and  if, 
in  addition  to  this  obligatio?i ,  your  own  son  forsakes  you  for 
the  company  of  heretics,  and  refuses  to  return  to  you,  how  can 
you  excuse  yourself  to  that  church  which  has  so  tenderly 
cared  for  your  soul?  Rather  should  you  rejoice  that  the 
Blessed  Virgin  will  accept  your  sacrifice,  and  save  you  from 
the  horrors  of  purgatory,”  added  she,  devoutly  crossing 
herself. 

“  If  Charles  don’t  come  to-day,  I  will  delay  no  longer,” 
faintly  uttered  the  sick  man,  as  though  loth  to  pronounce 
the  words  that  would  cut  off  even  such  a  disobedient  son  from 
his  heritage. 

“  Even  such  a  delay  may  prove  fatal  to  your  soul,”  sol¬ 
emnly  responded  the  nurse. 

The  door  was  noiselessly  unclosed,  and,  with  stealthy  steps, 
as  a  tiger  tracks  her  prey,  did  Bernaldi  glide  to  the  bedside 
of  his  intended  victim. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


73 


“  The  morning  is  bright  and  clear,  my  dear  Sir  William ;  I 
trust  you  feel  its  effects  in  renewed  strength;  ”  and  he  took 
the  feeble,  emaciated  hand  within  his  own,  with  well-affected 
interest  and  concern. 

“  In  truth,  good  father,  I  have  had  but  a  sorry  night  of  it. 
The  little  sleep  I  got  was  so  disturbed  by  strange  dreams, 
that  I  think  it  has  made  me  weaker  than  before,”  replied  the 
invalid. 

“  I  hope  you  do  not  allow  your  mind  to  be  disturbed  by  the 
undutiful  conduct  of  your  son,”  said  the  priest. 

“  Charles  has  caused  me  much  trouble,  I  know ;  but,  if  he 
would  come  to  me  now,  and  cheer  what  little  life  I  have  left,  I 
would  forgive  all.” 

“  I  grieve  to  find  your  h6art  thus  clinging  to  earthly  ob¬ 
jects,”  whined  Bernaldi.  “  I  hoped,  after  our  conversation 
yesterday,  you  would  divest  yourself  of  all  these  attachments, 
and  be  fitted  to  receive  the  holy  sacrament,  without  which 
you  cannot  die  in  peace.” 

“  Must  I  give  up  my  son  ?  ”  cried  the  father,  looking  ear¬ 
nestly  at  his  confessor. 

“  Choose  ye  between  your  own  salvation  and  your  earthly 
lusts,”  responded  he.  “  But  I  had  nearly  forgotten,”  he 
added,  taking  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  — “  this  may  help  you 
to  a  decision.” 

“Is  it  from  Charles?”  Sir  William  eagerly  inquired,  as. 
he  grasped  the  letter  ;  “  give  me  mj\glasses,  that  I  may  read 
myself  what  he  says.” 

The  nurse  gently  raised  his  wan  and  emaciated  form,  and, 
supporting  him  on  either  side  with  pillows,  sat  in  silence  near 
him,  while  with  watchful  eye  and .  secret  satisfaction  the 

7 


( 


74 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


priestly  confessor  noted  each  expression  of  agony  as  it  flitted 
over  the  face  of  his  dupe. 

“  It  is  enough,”  at  length  exclaimed  the  father,  in  despair, 
casting  from  him  the  letter,  which  Bernaldi  quickly  concealed ; 
“I  am  ready  to  give  up  all  now.  Go,  my  good  Marguerite, 
and  bring  me  a  reviving  draught ;  and  do  you,  holy  father, 
prepare  me  for  the  sacrament,  for  I  feel  that  I  cannot  long 
survive  this.” 

Concealing  his  exultation,  the  father-confessor  meekly 
replied, 

“  Will  you  now  prove  your  sincerity  and  devotion  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  who  thus  opens  her  arms  to  receive  you  into 
her  most  holy  communion,  as  she  will  receive  the  souls  of  the 
faithful  at  last  ?  ”  As  he  spoke  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
paper,  which  he  unfolded  before  the  sick  man. 

“  Explain  to  me  once  more  its  contents,”  said  Sir  William, 
waving  his  hand  towards  the  paper. 

“  It  is,  merely,  that  at  Lady  Duncan’s  decease  your  prop¬ 
erty  shall  be  kept  from  those  vile  heretics  to  whom  your  son 
clings,  and  devoted  to  the  holy  purposes  of  the  only  true,  the 
Catholic  church,”  replied  the  crafty  priest. 

“  Then  —  I  —  will —  sign  —  it !  ”  feebly  gasped  the  sufferer, 
as  he  sank  fainting  upon  his  bed. 

“  Curse  the  old  fool !  ”  muttered  Bernaldi,  as  all  their  efforts 
to  restore  consciousness  seemed  for  some  moments  unsuc¬ 
cessful  ;  “  a  moment  later,  and  it ’s  little  I  would  have  done 
to  bring  back  his  worthless  life  !  But  I ’m  not  to  be  foiled 
thus  !  I  ’ll  have  it  out  of  you  yet,  you  miserable  old  dotard !  ” 
and  he  ground  his  teeth  with  ill-concealed  vexation. 

“  Do  not  be  alarmed,  my  dear  lady,”  said  the  sycophantic 


75 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

priest,  as  Lady  Duncan  hastily  entered  the  room,  startled  by 
the  servant’s  report.  “  Sir  William  has  only  fainted  ;  see,  he 
is  already  reviving,”  he  added,  as,  with  a  deep  sigh,  the  patient 
slowly  unclosed  his  eyes  and  gazed  around. 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  approaching 
through  the  broad  entrance  to  Beechgrove  caught  the  quick 
ear  of  Bernaldi,  and  caused  the  blood  to  leap  wildly  through 
his  veins.  Suppose  his  prey  should  be  snatched  from  him  at 
tho  very  moment  when  his  success  seemed  certain  !  The 
thought  maddened  his  brain,  as  he  stepped  to  the  window  to 
conceal  his  agitation.  The  sight  that  met  his  eye  from  the 
court-yard  below  did  not  serve  to  lessen  it,  and,  with  a  mighty 
effort  to  suppress  his  fury,  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Lady 
Duncan, 

“  I  would  speak  with  you,  for  a  moment,  in  the  ante-room.” 

“  Your  son  has  just  arrived,”  said  he,  as  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  “  and  I  wish  to  caution  you  against  sudden  or' 
violent  agitation  on  the  part  of  Sir  William.  Its  effects 
would  probably  be  fatal,  after  his  recent  exhaustion.  I  would 
suggest  that  your  son’s  return  be  kept  from  him  till  I  have 
endeavored  to  prepare  his  mind  for  it,  which  I  will  do  this 
afternoon.” 

“  Thank  you,  good  father  !  ”  replied  Lady  Duncan,  with 
unwonted  feeling,  as  she  hastened  to  meet  her  son. 

“  llemember  —  eyes  and  ears  open,  Marguerite  !  ”  whispered 
Bernaldi,  as  he  passed  down  the  private  stairway,  and  quickly 
threaded  his  way  to  the  chateau. 

“  Deo  gratias  !  ”  exclaimed  the  bishop* 

“  Deo  gratias,  indeed !  ”  returned  Bernaldi,  bitterly,  all  hia 


76 


ANNA  CLAYTON, 


restrained  passion  bursting  forth  in  incoherent  words  and 
violent  gesticulations. 

“  For  this  unseemly  conduct  you  should  do  heavy  penance !  ” 
and  the  bishop  spoke  sternly  to  the  raving  priest. 

“  And  penance  I  would  do,  with  a  good  will,  but  what  ’ll 
that  avail  me  now  ?  ”  said  Bernaldi.  “  Here  have  I  labored 
these  four  or  five  years,  but  to  be  thwarted  at  the  last 
moment !  ”  r 

“But  the  reward ,  my  good  Alphonso — the  reward  is  suf¬ 
ficient  for  even  many  more  years  of  trial,”  soothingly  added  the 
bishop.  "  s 

“  Why  taunt  me  with  that  now,”  retorted  the  priest, 
“when  all  hopes  of  it  must  be  dashed?” 

“  Not  so  fast,  my  friend,”  answered  his  reverence  ;  “  though 
1  had  no  reason  to  doubt  the  successful  issue  of  our  last  plan, 
I  have  yet  another  in  reserve,  which  must  accomplish  our  holy 
object.” 

“  What  is  it  ?  ”  Bernaldi  asked,  brightening. 

“  First,  I  will  order  lunch,”  said  he,  ringing  a  small  silver 
bell ;  “  you  need  refreshment  after  your  long  walk.” 

The  savory  and  delicious  viands  spread  before  them,  of 
which  they  both  heartily  partook,  had  no  little  influence  in 

-*■  <  _  *  4  . 

raising  Bernaldi’s  spirits ;  and  he  exclaimed,  as  they  concluded 
their  repast,  •  »  *- 

“  Now,  holy  father,  we  will  to  business  :  your  excellent  wine 
has  restored  me  to  myself,  which  that  infernal  old  fool  had 
well-nigh  driven  out  of  me.” 

“  Let  him  die  and  rot  in  his  grave !  ”  impatiently  exclaimed 
the  bishop ;  “  we  will  yet  outwit  them  all !  ” 

“’T  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  your  reverence’s  wisdom 


X 


ANNA  CLAYTON  77 

and  experience  were  not  sufficient  to  outwit  a  dozen  such 
brainless  fellows  as  Charles  Duncan.” 

“  To  say  nothing  of  your  own  shrewdness  and  cunning, 
Bernaldi,”  added  the  former,  laughingly. 

“  J ust  give  me  one  more  chance,  good  father,  and  I  defy 
all  the  powers  above  and  below  to  thwart  me  again  !  ” 

“  But  that  does  n’t  include  the  power  of  woman,  which  you 
know  was  the  cause  of  your  defeat  before,”  sneeringly  replied 
the  bishop. 

“  If  ever  she  or  her  miserable  old  father  crosses  my  path 
again,”  returned  Bernaldi,  “  let  them  take  heed ;  for,  as  I  live, 
they  shall  feel  my  vengeance  !  ” 

“  llight  glad  am  I,  Alphonso,  to  hear  you  say  that ;  for  the 
plan  I  have  to  propose  will,  if  I  mistake  not,  be  the  greatest 
torture  you  could  inflict  upon  those  vile  heretics.” 

“  Then  I ’m  your  man,”  said  the  priest.  “ But  what  is  it?  ” 

The  bishop  drew  nearer  his  companion,  and  in  a  voice 

scarcely  audible,  as  though  fearful  that  the  very  walls  would 

*  ^ 

hear,  unfolded  a  plot  which  even  the  cold-blooded  Bernaldi 
could  scarcely  listen  to  without  shuddering. 

“  What  say  you  now,  Alphonso  ?  ”  asked  he,  as  he  con¬ 
cluded. 

“  I  say,”  replied  his  companion,  while  a  gleam  of  malicious 
satisfaction  crossed  his  Jesuitical  face  —  “I  say  that  nothing 
would  suit  me  better,  if  the  thing  can  be  done.” 

“  Our  church  allows  no  ifs  in  its  service,  and  least  of  all 
should  we  expect  one  from  you,”  haughtily  answered  the 
bishop. 

“  Be  it  so,  then,  good  father ;  I  will  do  my  part  to  your 
entire  satisfaction,  I  venture  to  say.” 

7* 


78 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  If  you  d ),  you  will  most  assuredly  receive  your  promised 
reward,”  he  replied. 


“"YVhere  am  I?  where  have  I  been?  what  have  I  done?” 
cried,  in  piteous  tones,  the  poor  sufferer,  as  consciousness 
returned,  and  with  it  a  sense  of  some  deep  wrong  committed. 
“Didn’t  somebody  say  Charles  had  come,  just  as  I  signed 
the  deed  which  made  him  a  beggar  ?  ” 

“  No,  Sir  William,”  said  Marguerite,  stepping  softly  to  his 
bedside,  “no  one  has  spoken.  You  must  have  had  strange 
dreams  to  suppose  any  one  wished  you  to  wrong  your  son. 
Here  is  your  medicine ;  it  is  a  little  past  the  time,  but  I  did 
not  like  to  disturb  your  sleep  to  give  it  to  you  before.” 

“  Then  I  have  been  asleep,”  said  he,  looking  round  confus- 
edly ;  “  I  thought  Father  Bernaldi  was  here,  and  made  me 
sign  some  paper ;  and  then  a  hideous  demon  appeared  before 
me,  and  said  I  had  beggared  my  boy.” 

“  These  dreams  indicate  a  higher  fever,”  said  she,  as  she 
examined  his  pulse  and  then  took  from  a  small  drawer  a 
potent  sleeping-powder,  which  she  mixed  with  his  medicine. 
“  Here,  Sir  William.” 

The  patient  gazed  wildly  at  her,  as  if  half  conscious  of  her 
treachery,  but,  without  another  word,  swallowed  the  draught, 
and  sank  back  again  on  his  bed. 

“  That  ’ll  do  for  you,  old  fellow,”  whispered  she  to  herself, 
“  till  I  know  what  next  to  do ;  it  is  nearly  time  he  should  be 
here.” 


“  Come,  now,  don’t,  mother !  ”  petulantly  exclaimed  Charles, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


79 


“  I  ’ye  had  fuss  and  trouble  enough,  the  Lord  knows,  since  I 
weht  away  !  ” 

“  Wejl,”  persisted  Lady  Duncan,  “  we  could  have  excused 
anything  rather  than  such  a  mesalliance ;  your  father  has 
never  been  the  same  man  since  the  day  he  heard  of  it.” 

“  My  father  was  never  so  fond  of  me  when  I  was  at  home  !  ’ 
said  he. 

“  0,  well,  you  know  his  honor,  the  honor  of  the  whole 
family,  must  be  affected  by  such  a  course.  We  had  hoped 
that  you  would  select  a  lady  of  noble  birth  to  share  your 
future  wealth.” 

“  And  it  is  n’t  too  late  now,”  replied  he,  carelessly ;  “  a 
simple  liaison  in  America  is  no  hindrance  to  a  marriage 
here.” 

“  Was  that  all,  Charles  ?  I  thought  you  were  really 
married  to  that  low-born  girl.” 

“And  suppose  I  was,  mother?  You  can’t  believe  I  ever 
had  the  slightest  idea  of  bringing  her  here  as  my  wife ! 
You  know,  as  well  as  I,  that  the  priest  can  absolve  any  con¬ 
tract  with  a  heretic.  I  should  have  died  with  the  blues  if  I 
hadn’t  had  something  to  amuse  me  there.” 

“  But  the  children,  Charles  ?  ” 

“  Are  just  the  prettiest  ones  you  ever  saw,”  —  and  there 
was  a  little  softening  about  his  heart, —  “  but  they  will  be 
well  taken  care  of,  I  know.” 

“Well,  my  good  Marguerite,”  said  Lady  Duncan,  as  the 
former  entered  the  room,  “  how  is  Sir  William  now  ?  ” 

“  Sir  William  is  very  ill,”  replied  the  nurse  ;  “  his  mind 
is  wandering,  and  he  is  evidently  much  worse.” 

“  Then  I  will  go  to  him  directly,”  said  Charles,  rising. 


80 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Alas,  sir  !  ”  —  and  Marguerite  shook  her  head,  sadly,  —* 
“  he  would  not  recognize  you  now.  After  a  few  hours  of 
undisturbed  rest,  which  Dr.  Murray  says  is  absolutely  neces¬ 
sary  for  him,  he  may  be  inu<$h  better.  I  will  inform,  you  the 
first  moment  it  is  safe  for  you  to  see  him  ;  ”  and  she  withdrew 
as  noiselessly  as  she  had  entered. 

“  Marguerite  is  a  faithful  creature,”  remarked  Lady  Dun¬ 
can  ;  “  she  could  not  nurse  yOur  father  onore  tenderly  if  he 
were  her  own ;  and  she  never  seems  weary  with  watching  him.” 

“  Where  did  she  come  from  ?  ”  asked  Charles. 

“  She  was  nursing  among  the  nobility,  when  Father  Ber- 

_  i 

naldi  met  her,  and  persuaded  her  to  come  io  us.  I  half  fancy 
Dr.  Murray  don’t  like  her ;  but  I  have  perfect  confidence  in 
her.” 

“  Father  Bernaldi !  ”  repeated  Charles  ;  “  then  he  is  about 
here  now.  I  have  n’t  seen  him  since  we  parted  in  a  miff,  and 
he  came  off  and  left  me.” 

“  He  speaks  of  you  with  great  affection,”  replied  his 
mother,  “  and  blames  you  no  more  than  all  your  friends  do.” 

•—  ,4 

“  I  don’t  care  a  farthing  for  his  affection  or  censure,”  said 
Charles,  as  he  rose  to  go  out  and  survey  grounds  soon  to  be 
his  own. 

With  quick  and  stealthy  steps,  Bernaldi  was  hastening 
towards  Beechgrove,  bitter  hatred  rankling  in  his  heart,  and 
burning  for  revenge,  when  he  perceived  Charles  leisurely 
strolling  around,  with  the  air  of  a  lordly  possessor.  Serpent¬ 
like,  he  glided  circuitously  through  the  elysian  paths  of  this 
home  Eden,  mingling  with  its  pure  fragrance  the  poisonous 
exhalations  of  his  own  corrupt  heart,  as  he  vowed  the  deep¬ 
est,  deadliest  enmity  to  him  who  had  twice  baflled  his  wicked 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


81 


designs.  Cautiously  avoiding  observation,  he  gained  the  side- 
door,  which  to  him,  was  ever  accessible,  and,  rapidly  ascend¬ 
ing  the  private  stairway,  noiselessly  entered  the  room,  to 
which  none  save  himself  was  admitted. 

“  How  now,  Marguerite  !  ”  whispered  he  ;  “  how  long  has 
he  slept  thus  ?  ” 

“  He  revived  a  few  moments  after  you  left,”  replied  she, 
in  the  same  tone  ;  u  but  I  found  he  was  beginning  to  be 
troublesome,  so  I  gave  him  one  of  your  powders,  and  he  has 
slept  ever  since.” 

“Very  well,  very  well;  see  that  he  wakes  no  more!  I 
want  none  of  his  fancies  put  into  that  young  villain’s  head. 
Remember,  the  other  powder,  —  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  or  any 
such  thing,  you  know,  will  do,”  and  he  nodded  most  signifi¬ 
cantly. 

“  As  you  say,  holy  father,”  replied  the  heartless  nurse. 

• 

For  more  than  an  hour  Charles  wandered  through  scenes 
familiar  to  his  youth,  but  now  awakening  within  him  a  new 
sense  of  their  grandeur  and  beauty.  With  the  pure  and  unsul¬ 
lied  glories  of  nature  he  had  had  but  little  acquaintance,  and 
less  sympathy,  in  his  wild  career ;  and,  as  they  now  broke 
upon  him  in  rare  and  unequalled  perfection,  he  felt  an  unde¬ 
fined  consciousness  of  his  own  inferiority.  Throwing  himself 
listlessly  upon  a  rustic  bench,  near  which  the  falling  waters 
were  dancing  merrily  to  the  notes  of  the  nightingale, — 
the  swelling  chorus  of  the  feathered  orchestra  filling  the  air 
with  heaven’s  music, —  he  exclaimed,  thinking  aloud  : 

-  “  ’T  would  be  passing  strange  if  a  man  can’t  live  happily  in 

such  a  place  as  this.  Give  me  a  few  choice  companions,  and 


82 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


it ’s  little  I  care  if  I  never  leave  it  again.  Phil  Manning 
shan’t  be  one,  though ;  he ’s  too  deep  for  me ;  and,  besides, 
he’s  got  enough  out  of  me  already.” 

“Charles,  my  good  fellow,  how  are  you?”  cried  a  voice 
behind  him,  as  a  hand  was  familiarly  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

“  Now  will  this  dull  place  wake  up  to  life  again,  I  hope  ;  ” 
and  Father  Bernaldi  greeted  cordially  his  former  com¬ 
panion. 

“  I  see  you  have  forgotten  our  indifferent  parting,”  replied 
Charles ;  “so  you  are  right  welcome,  good  father.” 

“  I  know  how  to  excuse  youthful  follies  and  indiscretions,” 

—  and  the  priest  assumed  one  of  his  blandest  smiles,  —  “  though 
it  may  be  my  duty  to  check  them,  if  possible.  But  I  have  • 
a  thousand  questions  to  ask  you,”  added  he,  as  he  took  the 
proffered  seat  near  Charles. 

“  To  which  I  shall  return  only  one  answer,”  replied  Charles, 
laughing;  “  so,  don’t  bother  me  with  any  of  your  foreign 
remembrances.  I’ve  left- them  all  behind  me,  and  now  I’m 
going  to  take  a  fresh  start  in  life.  If  you  and  I  are  to  be 
future  friends,  —  for  which  I  am  willing  enough, —  everything 
pertaining  to  my  life  abroad  must  be  forgotten.  You  under¬ 
stand,  eh  ?  ” 

“  I  should  be  dull,  indeed,”  Bernaldi  smilingly  answered, 

“  not  to  comprehend  your  meaning.  But  just  satisfy  my 
curiosity  on  one  or  two  points,  and  hereafter  my  silence  is 
pledged. ' 

Most  artfully  did  he  then  draw  from  Charles  all  the  inform¬ 
ation  he  wished ;  and  with  intense  satisfaction  he  gathered 
from  him  the  particulars  of  Charles’  farewell  visit,  which  had 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


83 


so  embittered  him  towards  his  lovely  wife,  and  given  him  a 
momentary  desire  for  revenge. 

“  There,  now,”  said  Charles,  as  he  concluded,  “  I  Ve  told 
you  more  than  I  ever  meant  to,  and  blast  me  if  ever  I 
open  my  lips  again  about  that  cursed  pale-faced  woman  !  ” 

But  Bemaldi  had  heard  enough  to  convince  him  that  tho 
dark  and  daring  plot  suggested  to  him  a  few  hours  before 
was  feasible,  and  that  Charles  himself  was  the  fittest  instru¬ 
ment  to  accomplish  it.  His  eager  delight  did  not  escape  the 
notice  of  Charles,  who,  however,  in  his  vanity,  attributed  it 
to  the  joy  of  meeting  him  again,  and  who  reproached  himself 
for  his  former  suspicions  of  this  faithful  friend.  With  his 
arm  affectionately  linked  in  that  of  Bernaldi,  in  restored 
confidence,  they  sauntered  slowly  along,  the  latter  charming 
him  with  his  unwonted  vivacity,  and  with  humorous  descrip¬ 
tions  of  scenes  which  had  occurred  during  his  absence.  Thus 
had  they  passed  a  much  longer  time  than  either  was  aware 
of,  when,  as  they  approached  the  house,  they  perceived  an 
unusual  commotion,  —  servants,  with  frightened  looks  and  pale 
faces,  running  hither  and  thither ;  and  Lady  Duncan,  with 
blanched  cheek  and  uplifted  arms,  urging  the  swift  messen¬ 
ger,  who  dashed  out  of  the  yard  and  out  of  sight  while  she 
was  yet  speaking. 

“  My  father  must  be  worse !  ”  exclaimed  Charles,  as  he 
ran,  with  trembling  steps,  towards  his  mother. 

“  0,  master  Charles !  ”  cried  the  usually  placid  nurse, 
wringing  her  hands,  in  great  agitation,  as  she  rushed  forth  to 
meet  him,  “  why  were  you  not  here  when  your  poor  father 
called  so  piteously  for  you  ?  It  almost  broke  my  heart  to 
hear  him !  ”  And, 


84 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Before  her  face  her  handkerchief  she  spread. 

To  hide  the  flood  of  tears  she  did  not  shed.” 

Poor  Charles  could  hear  no  more,  as  •yvith  rapid  strides  he 
passed  them,  and  sank  upon  his  knees  at  his  father’s  bedside. 

“  Too  late !  too  late !  ”  murmured  he,  grasping  the  cold 
and  lifeless  hand,  which  bat  a  few  moments  since  was  stretched 
forth  convulsively,  seeking  to  rest  itself  upon  his  head  in 
paternal  blessings. 


c 


CHAPTER  X. 

“  But  of  this  bo  sure, 

To  do  aught  good  will  never  be  our  task, 

But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight.” 

Milton. 

v  »  t 

Beechgrove  seemed  shrouded  with  a  gloomy  pall  of  dark¬ 
ness.  Its  late  master  had  been  consigned,  with  great  pomp 
and  pageantry,  to  his  last  resting-place ;  and  costly  masses  for 
the  repose  of  his  soul  were  daily  repeated  in  the  churches  far 
and  near,  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  their  lucre-loving  priests. 
The  necessary  forms  of  law  had  been  duly  attended  to,  and 
Charles  was  now  the  acknowledged  possessor  of  the  princely 
fortune  and  estates  of  the  late  Sir  William.  Everything 
wore  a  mournful  aspect  in  and  about  the  house ;  even  the 
very  birds  seemed  to  nod  and  whisper  to  each  other  in  the 
ominous  silence  reigning  everywhere.  Lady  Duncan,  ab¬ 
sorbed  in  her  selfish  grief  and  widow’s  weeds,  gave  scarcely 
a  passing  thought  to  aught  else ;  Marguerite,  the  tender 
nurse,  had  gone  on  other  missions  of  mercy,  and  Charles  was 
wearied  with  the  dull  and  monotonous  life  he  was  forced  to 
lead.  Rising  early,  one  morning,  he  mounted  his  fleetest 
horse,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience  spurring  him  on,  he 
checked  not  his  speed  till  Beechgrove  and  its  surrounding 
8 


86 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


beauties  were  left  far  behind  him.  His  uncurbed  spirit  could 
no  longer  endure  the  restraint  imposed  upon  him  in  his  own 
home  by  the  customary  forms  of  mourning,  and  he  deter¬ 
mined  to  break  away  from  them  all,  and  for  a  few  days,  at 
least,  enjoy  a  little  of  what  he  called  life.  His  father’s  death 
had  affected  him  more  than  he  thought  it  possible  for  any¬ 
thing  to  do,  and  he  was  impatient  to  shake  off  his  gloomy 
feelings,  and  mingle  again  with  the  gay  world. 

The  region  where  he  now  found  himself  was  new  to  him, 
and  he  suffered  his  noble  steed  to  guide  him  whithersoever  he 
would,  while  his  own  thoughts  were  busily  employed  plan¬ 
ning  future  scenes  of  pleasure.  Suddenly  a  wild  shriek  rang 
through  the  air,  and  in  the  same  instant  came  dashing  madly 
on,  plunging  and  rearing  with  every  bound,  a  splendid  white 
charger,  bearing  his  almost  unconscious  burden  crouching  upon 
his  back.  Quick  as  thought  Charles  leaped  from  -  his  saddle, 
and,  seizing  the  bridle-rein,  which  hung  loosely  from  the  char¬ 
ger’s  neck,  he  checked  him  with  such  violence  as  brought  them 
all  to  the  ground  together.  Pale  with  fear  and  affright,  the 
lady  instantly  sprang  to  her  feet,  and,  soothing  the  equally 
terrified  animal,  saw,  to  her  consternation,  that  her  deliverer 
had  fallen  insensible,  nearly  crushed  with  the  weight  of  horse 
and  rider,  which  had  both  come  upon  him.  Yainly  calling,  in 
her  terror,  for  assistance,  she  flew  to  a  spring  near  by,  and 
with  its  cool,  refreshing  .waters  laved  the  brow  of  him  who 
had  so  nearly  sacrificed  his  own  life  in  saving  hers. 

Who  that  had,  the  evening  previous,  seen  the  proud  and 
haughty  Lady  Emilie  He  Y ere,  the  acknowledged  belle  of 
the  gay  season,  surrounded  with  noble  suitors,  turning  from 
them  all  with  indifference,  till  in  their  vexation  they  pro- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


87 


nounced  her  as  heartless  as  she  was  beautiful,  could  have 
recognized  the  same  being  in  the  earnest,  anxious  expression 
of  the  lovely  face,  bending  over  the  form  of  her  still  uncon¬ 
scious  and  unknownrCompanion  ?  Little  does  the  aristocratic 
maiden  herself  imagine  that  each  wild  throb  of  her  heart,  as 
she  gazes  with  intense  earnestness  upon  the  handsome  features 
of  her  heroic  preserver,  is  but  the  response  of  a  new-born  joy 
hidden  within  its  depths. 

Scarely  five  minutes  had  elapsed  when  the  welcome  sound 
of  advancing  horsemen  apprised  Lady  Emilie  that  assistance 
was  at  hand ;  and,  looking  up,  she  joyfully  discovered  her 
father  and  his  faithful  groom  rapidly  approaching  in  pursuit 
of  her.  Their  vigorous  exertions  to  restore  consciousness 
were*  soon  rewarded  by  a  deep  groan  from  the  injured  man, 
who  slowly  unclosed  his  eyes,  fixed  them  for  a  moment  upon 
the  fair  face  near  him,  and  again  relapsed  into  utter  oblivion. 

“  He  must  have  been  internally  injured,”  said  Lord  De 
Vere,  as  his  daughter  concluded  her  narrative  of  the  sad 
accident.  “  It  is  necessary  that  he  should  receive  immediate 
attention.  Make  all  possible  haste,  John,  in  getting  the  car¬ 
riage,  and  in  the  mean  time  let  a  surgeon  be  summoned.” 

To  Ravenswood,  the  delightful  country  residence  of  Lord 
De  Vere,  was  the  still  insensible  stranger  carefully  conveyed, 
and  laid  upon  its  softest  bed.  The  powerful  and  efficient 
treatment  of  their  family  physician  soon  restored  life  and 
animation ;  and  Charles  looked  around  the  sumptuous  apart¬ 
ment,  and  upon  the  strange  faces,  with  a  bewildered  air. 

“  It  were  better  for  you  to  make  no  unnecessary  effort,” 
said  the  physician,  mildly,  as  Charles  attempted  to  rise. 
“You  have  been  injured,  though  we  scarcely  yet  know  to 


88 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


what  extent,  and  we  may  be  obliged  to  detain  you  as  our 
prisoner  for  a  few  days/’ 

Charles  rubbed  his  eyes  in  amazement;  while  a  vague,  in¬ 
distinct  recollection  of  his  recent  adventure  seemed  to  dawn 
slowly  upon  him. 

“  Where  am  I  ?.”  at  length  he  asked. 

“  Under  the  roof  of  one  who  will  never  be  able  to  repay 
his  debt  to  you  !  ”  exclaimed  Lord  Be  Vere,  coming  forward 
and  taking  his  hand.  - 

The  puzzled  look  again  returned  to  Charles’  face,  as  he 
tried  to  comprehend  his  lordship’s  reply. 

“  Emilie,  my  daughter,”  said  the  latter,  opening  the  door 
into  an  adjoining  room,  “  he  has  revived.  Come  in ;  you  can 
better  explain  than  I.” 

Blushing  with  maidenly  confusion,  the  usually  self-possessed 
Lady  Emilie  stepped  softly  to  his  side,  and  timidly  uttered  her 
gratitude  for  her  preservation. 

Charles  was  awake  now,  as  the  presence  of  the  fair  eques¬ 
trian  recalled  the  whole  scene  vividly  to  his  mind. 

“  I  have  done  nothing  worthy  of  your  thanks,  fair  lady,” 
replied  he,  “  though  it  is  sweet  to  receive  them.”  And  he 
gazed  admiringly  into  the  beautiful  face  of  the  proud  lady. 

“  We  have  yet  to  learn  the  name  of  your  self-sacrificing 
hero,”  said  Lord  Be  Vere,  with  significant  glances,  to  his 
daughter. 

“  I  trust  the  confusion  of  my  brain  will  be  a  sufficient 
apology,  sir,”  said  Charles,  handing  him  a  card. 

“  Charles  Buncan !  What,  the  son  of  my  old  friend  Sir 
William,  recently  deceased?” 

The  same,  sir,”  answered  Charles. 


v 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


89 


“  Then  are  you  indeed  doubly  welcome,”  exclaimed  Lord 
De  Vere.  “  It  needs  no  ceremony  to  acquaint  you  with  my 
daughter,  Lady  Emilie  De  A  ere,  as  you  have  already  so  favor¬ 
ably  introduced  yourself.” 

“  I  sec  I  must,  however  unwillingly,  interpose,”  said  the 
physician,  interrupting  them.  “  But  it  will  be  necessary  to 
keep  Sir  Charles  perfectly  quiet,  for  a  few  days,  at  least.” 

“Do  you  find  him  seriously  injured?”  Lord  De  Arere 
inquired,  with  much  interest,  aside. 

“  I  fear  his  brain  is  seriously  affected.  Indeed,  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  he  is  delirious  to-night ;  rest  and  quiet 
are  most  essential  in  his  case.” 

“  Give  him  all  the  attention  in  your  power,  doctor.  Ilis 
father  was  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  this  was  his  only  child. 
He  has  been  abroad  the  last  few  years,  and  but  lately  re¬ 
turned  ;  so  I  have  never  seen  him  till  now.  Strange  that  we 
should  have  met  in  such  a  manner  !  ”  added  Lord  De  Vere, 
musingly. 

The  physician’s  prediction  was  fully  verified,  as  Charles  lay 
restlessly  moaning  upon  his  bed,  all  unconscious  of  the  anxious 
care  with  which  he  was  tenderly  nursed,  or  the  deep  interest, 
but  too  plainly  revealed,  with  which  one  watched  for  his 
returning  reason. 

Lord  De  Vere  well  knew  how  futile  would  be  any  attempt 
to  oppose  or  reason  with  his  daughter ;  and  therefore  Emilie 
was,  as  she  had  ever  been,  left  to  her  own  guidance.  Deserting 
the  gay  scenes  where  she  had  shone  so  brilliantly,  but  for 
which  she  had  suddenly  lost  all  relish,  and  assiduously  devot¬ 
ing  herself  to  him  who  had  so  daringly  saved  her  life,  Lady 
Emilie  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  but  exercising  the  rites 

8* 


90 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


» 


of  good  English  hospitality.  Not  so  thought  the  sagacious 
physician,  whose  keen  glance  often  caused  the  crimson  blush 
to  mantle  her  cheek  with  some  unwonted  emotion.  Not  so 
thought  her  haughty  father,  as,  with  increasing  solicitude,  he 

*  s 

saw  her  cheek  grow  pale,  and  her  steps  less  light,  save  in  the 
presence  of  their  guest. 

Lady  Emilie  was  the  last  to  discover  that  other  emotions 
than  gratitude  and  mere  friendship  prompted  her  to  forego 
all  her  former  pleasures,  that  she  might  sit  by  the  side,  or 
guide  the  feeble  steps,  of  the  convalescent.  When,  however, 
the  humiliating  truth  flashed  upon  her  that  she  had  given 
her  heart  unasked,  pride  came  to  her  rescue,  and  in  a  calm, 
self-possessed  manner,  she  announced  to  her  father,  in  Charles’ 
presence,  that  she  must  fulfil  an  engagement  in  the  city,  and 
should  depart  thither  immediately.  True  to  her  resolution, 
she  very  kindly  and  courteously  bade  adieu  to  Charles,  and 
hastened  away,  that  none  might  see  the  wild  throbbings 
beneath  that  cold  exterior. 


“  My  dear  Charles,”  said  Father  Bernaldi,  a  few  days 
after  his  return  to  Beechgrove,  “  you  seem  gloomy  and  de¬ 
pressed,  and  yet  you  will  not  confide  in  an  old  friend,  who, 
you  know,  is  devoted  to  your  interests  and  happiness.  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  ” 

“  To  tell  you  the  truth,  good  father,  I  don’t  know  what 
ails  me.  I ’m  lonely  and  miserable,  that ’s  all ;  it ’s  so  con¬ 
founded  dull  here !  ” 

“  But  it  is  in  your  power  to  make  it  more  cheerful.” 

“  How  ?  ”  asked  Charles. 

0 

“Nothing  easier,”  answered  Bernaldi,  with  a  meaning 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


91 


smile ;  “  would  not  Beechgrove,  and  its  master  too,  rejoice 
in  the  bright  and  beautiful  presence  of  a  fair  and  presiding 
spirit?” 

“  Speak  out  plainly,  father,”  said  Charles,  more  pleased 
than  he  cared  to  show ;  “  you  talk  in  riddles.” 

“  I  should  not  wish  to  offend  you,  Charles,”  he  answered, 
meekly,  “  but  your  happiness  lies  so  near  my  heart,  ’t  would 
be  strange,  indeed,  if  aught  affecting  you  escape  my  notice.” 

“  Well,  and  what  then?  ”  impatiently  added  Charles. 

“  Nothing ;  only,  if  these  faithful  eyes  and  ears  do  not 
deceive  me,  a  lady  of  noble  birth,  whose  hand  is  coveted  by 
the  rich  and  powerful,  would  not  disdain  to  become  the  Eve 
in  this  paradise.” 

“  You  mean  Lady  Emilie,  I  suppose,”  replied  Charles. 

“  The  same,”  said  Bernaldi,  keenly  eying  him. 

“  She  has  no  other  feeling  for  me  than  gratitude,  I  assure 
you,”  said  Charles,  in  a  tone  which  conveyed  a  different 
hope. 

“  That  is  all  a  delusion,  my  dear  sir ;  Lady  Emilie  loves 
you.”  .  . 

Charles  eagerly  started  from  his  seat  with  delight.  “  Prove 
that  to  me,  good  father,  and  you  shall  not  lose  your  re¬ 
ward.” 

“  I  could  give  yOu  other  proof  than  my  word,”  returned 
Bernaldi ;  “  but  it  would  avail  you  nothing,  as  you  are  at 
present  situated.” 

“  I  understand  you  but  too  well,”  said  Charles,  with  a 
sigh ;  “  yet  I  always  supposed  the  church  had  power  to  annul 
that  contract.” 

“  So  she  has,  and  to  those  who  are  true  to  her  interests 


92 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


the  bishop  often  grants  such  absolution ;  but  you  must  confess 
you  have  not  been  a  very  devoted  follower.” 

“  If  you  mean,”  interrupted  Charles,  “  that  I  have  not 
given  money  enough,  why,  set  your  own  price,  but  get  me 

released  from  that  hateful  marriage.” 

* 

“  The  bishop  only  can  do  that,”  replied  Bernaldi,  “  and  I 
would  advise  you  to  seek  him  without  delay.” 

Little  need  had  Charles  of  such  advice,  for  his  impetuous 
nature  could  bear  no  suspense ;  and,  as  the  wary  priest  rightly 
divined,  he  suffered  not  many  days  to  elapse  ere  he  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  one  who  held  such  power  over  his 
future  destiny.  The  secrets  of  that  confessional  we  cannot 
unveil ;  but  Charles  returned  to  his  home  in  deep  thought, 
and  evident  agitation.  The  ordeal  he  must  pass  was  sur¬ 
rounded  with  difficulties,  perhaps  impossibilities,  which  he 
might  never  be  able  to  overcome ;  certain  it  was,  that  without 
his  faithful  Bernaldi  he  could  do  nothing ;  so,  at  least,  he  felt, 
and  rightly  too. 

“  It  is,  as  you  say,  a  perilous  undertaking,”  Bernaldi 
remarked,  after  Charles  had  disclosed  to  him  the  conditions 
upon  which  alone  the  bishop  would  grant  his  wish  ;  “he  might 
almost  as  well  have  refused  you  at  once.  And  yet,  it  would 
be  the  best  thing  for  you,  if  you  have  the  courage  to  brave  it 
through.  I  scarcely  know  how  to  advise  you,”  he  added, 
with  a  puzzled  air,  “  but  of  one  thing  you  may  be  sure ;  what¬ 
ever  you  do,  you  may  command  your  best  friend  to  the  extent 
of  his  abilities.” 

“  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  most  excellent  father!”  ex¬ 
claimed  Charles ;  “  were  it  not  for  my  trust  in  you,  I  could 
not  for  a  moment  hope  for  success.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


93 


“  You  see,”  rea-soned  Bernaldi,  “  there  is  no  other  way  for 
you  to  obtain  Lady  Emilie ;  for,  even  had  the  holy  father 
annulled  the  marriage,  thoso  children  would  be  your  legal 
heirs,  and  their  friends,  you  may  depend,  would  not  be  slow 
in  proclaiming  it.  But,  if  you  just  take  them  into  your  own 
care,  as  you  ought,  and  place  them  securely  within  the 
church,  you  not  only  insure  their  salvation,  but  all  trouble¬ 
some  discoveries  by  the  haughty  Lord  do  Yere  will  be 
avoided.  I  know  him  too  well  to  believe  he  would  ever  con¬ 
sent  to  give  his  daughter  to  one  who  had  stooped  to  a  connec¬ 
tion  with  a  low-born  heretic.  Your  desired  success  can  only 

be  gained  by  their  entire  ignorance  of  any  such  ties.  To 

• 

them  those  children  must  be  as  though  they  were  not ;  and, 
when  once  you  have  given  them  to  the  church,  they  are  no 
longer  yours,  and  you  can  say  truly  (should  occasion  re- 
quire)  that,  you  have  neither  wife  nor  child.  You  under¬ 
stand  ?  ” 

•  '  i-  ,  / 

“Yes,”  said  Charles,  hesitatingly,  “I  see;  but  you  are 
supposing,  all  the  time,  that  the  thing  is  accomplished,  while 
my  only  trouble  is  how  to  do  it.  If  I  was  more  sure  of  Lady 
Emilie,  I  believe  I  should  try,  with  your  help ;  but  I  can  tell 
you  it  will  be  a  hard  task.” 

“  Perhaps  so ;  but  I  think  we  can  plan  it  so  that  it  will 
not  be  so  difficult  as  you  imagine.” 

“  I  ’ll  leave  all  the  planning  to  you,  good  father,  while  I  go 
to  ltavenswood;  and  if  Lady  Emilie  consents  to  share  with 
me  the  beauties  of  Beechgrove,  I ’d  go  to  the  world’s  end  and 
work  impossibilities,  rather  than  lose  her  ” 


I 


«*» 


' 


CHAPTER  XI. 

“  Trained  to  duplicity  and  crime,  they  are  daring,  unscrupulous,  un¬ 
relenting  ;  and,  to  convert  fortunes  to  their  use,  they  decoy  the  simple, 
murder  the  obnoxious,  rob  households,  torture  the  intractable,  and  trust 
to  impenetrable  dungeons  to  conceal  those  who  would  witness  against 
them.  Thus  has  Rome  perpetuated  her  wealth  and  power.” 

“  I  really  think,  Anna,”  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  gazing  fondly 
on  her  daughter,  “  that  you  have  yet  many  years  of  happi¬ 
ness  before  you.  Your  tell-tale  face,  if  not  so  sunny  as  when 
you  were  my  pupil,  has  of  late  been  growing  more  cheerful.” 

“  Who  can  live  beneath  the  sun’s  rays,  and  not  feel  their 
genial  influence?  ”  replied  Anna,  with  a  loving  smile.  “  Cold, 
indeed,  would  be  the  heart  that  did  not  glow  and  expand  in 
the  bright  sunshine  of  a  mother’s  love  —  and  such  a  mother !  ” 
she  added,  in  a  low  voice  of  tenderness. 

“  Bless  you,  my  child !  ”  and  a  tear  dimmed  the  soft  hazel 
eye ;  “  it  needed  not  such  trials  as  yours  to  bind  you  more 
closely  to  my  heart.  But  see  —  there  comes  Susan  with  the 
baby;  and  Charlie  is  skipping  merrily  along,  as  though,  the 
world  were  all  flowers  and  sunshine.” 

“  God  grant  it  may  be  to  him  !  ”  breathed  Anna,  with  a 
sigh,  which  was  drowned  in  the  noisy  glee  of  the  beautiful 
boy,  as  he  came  bounding  into  his  mother’s  lap. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


95 


“  0,  mamma !  ”  cried  he,  “  we ’ve  been  to  see  Aunt  Bessie’s 
baby,  and  she ’s  most  as  pretty  as  my  own  little  sister  —  not 
quite,  though and  he  shook  his  head  knowingly,  as  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  chubby,  dimpled  face  his  little  heart 
worshipped. 

“  What  did  Aunt  Bessie  say  to  you,  Charlie?  ” 

“  She  seems  as  fond  of  the  children,”  said  Susan,  coming 
forward,  “  as  if  they  were  her  own.  I  thought  she  would 
never  stop  kissing  them.  She  wished  me  to  tell  you,  ma’am, 

that  her  baby  was  christened  last  Sunday,  and  they  call  her 

•  > 

Anna,  for  you.” 

“  Dear  Bessie !  ”  exclaimed  Anna,  while  the  tears  gathered 
as  she  thought  of  the  wicked  farce  mumbled  over  her  own 
children,  “  she  deserves  all  her  blessings.” 

“  That ’s  pretty  much  what  she  said  about  you,  ma’am,” 
replied  Susan,  proudly.  “  When  she  was  kissing  the  children 
she  said  you  deserved  such  treasures,  for  the  sweetness  with 
which  you  bore  your  misfortunes ;  those  are  her  very  words, 
ma’am.” 

“  My  misfortunes,  as  she  terms  them,”  smilingly  remarked 
Anna,  turning  to  Mrs.  Clayton,  “  have  seemed  much  lighter 
since  they  were  softened  by  the  sympathy  of  such  warm 
hearts.” 

“  Would  that  you  had  found  a  more  sure  support,  dear 
Anna  !  ”  was  Mrs.  Clayton’s  only  answer. 


The  two  little  cherubs  had  sunk  into  the  dreamless  sleep 
of  innocence,  while  the  young  mother  still  kept  her  watchful 
vigils  near  them.  Memories  of  the  past,  clothed  with  life, 


96 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


came  thronging  with  fearful  distinctness  about  her.  Shudder- 
inglj  she  gazed,  as  the  dark  phantoms,  one  by  one,  came  flit¬ 
ting  by  in  their  startling,  life-like  reality ;  and  with  a  shriek 
she  recoiled  from  the  black,  fathomless  abyss  which  seemed 
opening  before  her.  The  vision  passed  away,  and  naught  but 
the  tiny  forms  of  the  sweet  sleepers  met  her  terrified  gaze,  as 
she  tremblingly  looked  around. 

“  What  a  frightful  dream  I  have  had  !  ”  whispered  she,  as, 
with  an  undefined  fear  of  coming  evil,  she.  crept  softly  to  the 
side  of  her  treasures,  and  nestled  them  within  her  own  arms. 
Alas  for  thee,  fond  mother  !  the  bitterness  of  death  itself 
would  be  sweet  in  comparison  with  the  anguish  that  must 
wring  thy  heart,  ere  thou  wilt  learn  to  seek  a  stronger  arm 
than  thine  own  for  the  protection  of  these  defenceless  ones ! 

“  Mamma,  do  see !  ”  cried  little  Charlie,  as  he  pointed 
with  ecstasy  to  the  still  sleeping  baby,  whose  flaxen  ringlets 
were  flooded  with  the  morning’s  beams,  and  encircled  her  fairy 
brow  like  a  crown  of  glory.  “  Is  n’t  that  the  way  angels  look, 
mamma?  ” 

Anna  smiled  as  she  roused  from  her  heavy  sleep.  “  Yes, 
darling,  only  little  Myrtie  is  a  thousand  times  more  dear ; 
for  we  can  take  her  in  our  arms  and  kiss  her,  and  feel  that 
she  belongs  to  us.” 

“  But  Susan  says  she  don’t  belong  to  us,  mamma;  she  told 
me  yesterday  that  God  only  gave  us  the  baby  to  love  and 
take  care  of,  till  he  called  her  back  to  heaven.  Is  n’t  that  too 
bad,  mamma?” 

“But  Susan  is  right,  dear,”  said  his  mother ;  and  again 
the  dark  foreboding  of  evil  fell  upon  her  heart  at  the 
possibility  of  this  precious  trust  being  recalled  by  the  Giver. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


97 


Susan’s  gentle  knock  at  the  door  was  quickly  answered  by 
the  bright  boy,  who  sprang  into  her  arms  for  his  usual  morn¬ 
ing  kiss,  but  drew  back  when  he  saw  her  face  red  and  swollen 
with  weeping. 

“  Why,  Susan,  what  has  happened  ?  ”  exclaimed  Anna, 
as  the  poor  girl  threw  herself  into  a  chair  and  burst  into 
tears.  * 

“  Indeed,  ma’am,  I  have  cried  all  night  at  the  thought  of 
leaving  you  and  the  children ;  but  here  is  a  letter  I  got  last 
night,  and  my  mother  is  so  sick  they  think  she  is  going  to 
die,  and  so  she  has  sent  for  me  to  go  and  stay  with  her  while 
she  does  live.  Indeed,  but  it ’s  a  sore  trial  to  part  with  you 
all;  and  my  poor  mother,  too!  I’m  afraid  she  isn’t  pre¬ 
pared  to  die.” 

*  .  \ 

“  0,  well,”  said  her  mistress,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully, 

“  we  will  hope  for  the  best ;  your  mother  may  get  better 
soon,  and  then  you  will  return  to  us.  IIow  soon  must  you 
go?”  .  * 

“  That  is  what  troubles  me,”  said  Susan.  “  They  wrote 

that  they  would  have  some  one  waiting  for  me  at  the  cross¬ 
ing, — which  is  about  six  miles  from  mother’s,  —  when  the 
stage  passes  there  to-morrow.  To  get  there  by  that  time  I 
should  have  to  go  part  of  the  way  to-day ;  ”  and  her  tears 
flowed  afresh.  “  Dear  little  Charlie  and  the  darling  baby  ! 
how  can  I  leave  them  ?  ”  she  cried,  caressing  first  one  and 
then  the  other.  “  But  God  will  take  care  of  us  all,  Mrs. 
Duncan,”  she  added,  in  her  simple  faith ;  “  and  if  it  is  best 
for  us  to  be  afflicted,  we  must  not  complain.” 

The  day  wore  sadly  away.  Susan,  by  her  fidelity  and 
devotion  to  their  interests,  had  won  the  esteem  of  all,  and 

9 


98 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


made  herself  almost  indispensable  to  their  comforL  Char¬ 
lie  was  loud  in  his  demonstrations  of  sorrow  for  her  departure, 
and  little  Myrtie  seemed  babyishly  inclined  to  join  in  the 
general  feeling  that  they  were  losing  a  faithful  friend  as  well 
as  servant.  Poor  Susan  could  scarcely  refrain  from  continual 
sobbing,  as  she  made  her  few  simple  preparations  to  leave, 
now  and  then  stopping  to  clasp  the  baby  in  lifer  arms  once 
more,  or  joining  with  tearful  eyes  in  some  childish  frolic  with 
Charlie. 

At  length  she  spoke  hesitatingly  to  Mrs.  Clayton,  as  she 
sat  with  the  baby  in  her  lap,  while  Mrs.  Duncan  was  sewing 
near  by, —  “  I ’ve  been  thinking  that  I  should  feel  easier  if  you 
had  some  good  faithful  girl  to  take  my  place  before  I  go. 
These  little  darlings  ” — -  and  her  lips,  quivered —  “  want  some 
one  to  walk  and  play  with  them.” 

“  I  am  aware-  of  that,”  replied  Mrs.  Clayton ;  “  but 
where  should  we  look  for  one  to  fill  your  place,  Susan  ? 
We  cannot  trust  every  one ;  and,  besides,  we  hope  you  will 
return  soon.” 

“  I  hope  I  may,”  answered  Susan ;  “  but  there  is  a  nice 
girl  staying  down  to  Mrs.  Carters,  who  would  be  glad  to 
serve  you,  even  for  a  short  time,  as  she  is  poor  and  needs  some 
help.” 

“  Who  and  what  is  she  ?  Do  you  know  her,  Sus'an  ?  ”  Mrs. 
Duncan  asked,  looking  up  with  interest. 

“  She  can  tell  you  better  than  I,  ma’am,  if  you  would  see 
her.  I  only  know  that  she  had  to  flee  her  own  country, 
where  she  was  well  off,  because  she  wTas  persecuted  so  for 
becoming  a  Protestant.” 

“  She  was  a  Catholic,  then  ?  ” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


99 


“  Yes,  ma’am ;  and  she  seems  so  humble,  so  good,  that  Mrs. 
Carter  says  it  is  worth  her  board  to  hear  her  talk.” 

“  Perhaps  we  had  better  see  her,  Anna,”  said  Mrs.  Clay¬ 
ton  to  her  daughter ;  “  we  cannot  tell  how  long  Susan  may 
have  to  stay  and  nurse  her  mother ;  and  you  are  not  able  to 
take  care  of  t^e  children.” 

“  How  do*  you  know  she  would  like  to  come  here  ?  ”  asked 
Mrs.  Duncan. 

“  Why,  because  I  have  met  her  several  times  when  we ’ve 
been  out  walking,  and  she  seems  so  fond  of  the  children ;  she 
said,  only  yesterday,  that  I  must  be  the  happiest  girl  in  the 
world  with  such  sweet  little  treasures  to  guard.  You  must 
excuse  me,  ma’am ;  but  when  I  saw  her  walking  along  by  here 
this  morning,  I  told  her  how  bad  I  felt  to  leave  you,  and  she 
said,  Could  n’t  she  serve  you  till  I  come  back  ?  She  would  do 
everything  for  those  darlings,  and  such  a  sweet  woman  as  she 
knew  their  mother  must  be.” 

“  She  has  a  smooth  tongue,  anyhow,  I  should  judge,” 
said  Anna,  smiling ;  “  but  you  may  go  and  tell  her  I  would 
like  to  see  her,  and  if  she  impresses  me  as  favorably  as  she 
has  you,  she  can  remain.” 

Susan  went  out,  and  soon  returned  with  the  girl,  whom  she 
fortunately  met,  as  she  said,  just  outside  the  gate.  She  was 
a  demure-looking  person,  a  little  older  than  Anna  had  ex¬ 
pected  to  see,  but  very  neat  and  tidy,  and  with  an  air  of  good 
breeding  seldom  found  in  one  of  her  rank.  Both  Mrs.  Clay¬ 
ton  and  Anna  were  sufficiently  pleased  with  her  appearance  to 
justify  Susan’s  good  opinion. 

“  Your  name,  if  you  please,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan. 


100 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Marguerite,  at  your  service,  ma’am,”  she  answered,  in  a 
pleasant  voice. 

“  Susan  was  telling  me,”  continued  Anna,  “  that  misfor¬ 
tunes  had  driven  you  to  this  country.  I  should  like  to  know 
a  little  of  your  history.” 

“  Perhaps  these  will  contain  all  the  information  you  wish,” 
•  said  she,  handing  her  a  small  package. 

Anna  glanced  over  the  papers,  which  she  passed  to  Mrs. 
Clayton,  remarking,  as  she  did  so,  “  You  certainly  have  most 
ample  and  creditable  testimony  for  your  integrity,  as  well  as 
religious  principles.  Would  you  like  to  take  charge  of  my 
little  pets  during  Susan’s  absence  ?  ” 

“  No  service  would  be  more  agreeable  to  me,”  said  Mar¬ 
guerite,  as  she  smilingly  beckoned  Charlie  to  her  lap. 

Susan  felt  greatly  relieved  when  she  resigned  her  duties 
into  the  hands  of  one,  as  she  believed,  every  way  worthy  and 
capable ;  and  she  left  the  roof  which  had  been  such  a  pleas¬ 
ant  home  for  her,  weeping,  of  course,  but  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  a  few  hours  before  seemed  possible. 

Marguerite’s  gentle,  unobtrusive  manners,  her  assiduous 
efforts  to  please,  and  her  love  for  the  children,  which  seemed 
strengthening  every  day,  soon  gained  the  entire  confidence  of 
Anna  and  her  mother. 

“  I  do  not  like  to  see  my  mistress  bending  over  her  sew¬ 
ing  so  continually,”  said  she,  one  day,  to  Mrs.  Clayton. 
“  If  she  would  only  allow  me  to  do  it  for  her,  I  should  be  so 
glad !  ” 

The  little  garment  was  placed  in  her  hands,  and  finished 
with  such  exquisite  skill,  that,  by  her  own  entreaty,  the  whole 
juvenile  wardrobe  was  intrusted  to  her  care,  and  Anna  left 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


101 


at  liberty  to  breathe  more  freely  the  pure  air  of  heaven.  To 
the  quiet  parsonage  did  her  steps  almost  daily  lead ;  and  Bes¬ 
sie,  too,  had  reason  to  rejoice  in  Marguerite’s  efficient  aid, 
which  thus  afforded  her  many  hours  of  the  sweet  companion¬ 
ship  of  her  friend. 

“  I  have  come  to  sit  with  you  all  the  morning,”  said  Anna, 
one  day,  as  she  entered  Bessie’s  cosey  breakfast-room ;  “  so, 
just  prepare  yourself  for  a  regular  siege,  for  I  told  Marguerite 
to  leave  the  children  here  on  their  return  from  their  morning 
walk.  Everything  looks  so  pleasant  and  cheerful  here,  I 
should  like  to  sit  down  and  have  one  of  our  old-fashioned 
chats.” 

“  And  have  the  talk  all  on  your  side,”  added  Bessie,  laugh¬ 
ingly,  as  she  welcomed  her. 

“  No  danger  of  that,”  returned  Anna,  “  for  one  half  the 
time,  at  least,  I  should  have  to  listen  to  the  praises  of  a  certain 
model  husband.” 

“  And  the  other  half,”  retorted  Bessie,  slyly,  “  would  be 
scarcely  sufficient  to  recount .  the  perfections  of  two  little 
angels.” 

“  Let ’s  have  a  truce,  now  we  are  even,”  said  Anna,  “  and 
I  will  agree  with  you  that  Herbert  is  a  perfect  embodiment 
of  everything  that  is  good,  pure,  and  noble.” 

“  And  I  will  say,  what  I  think,”  added  Bessie,  earnestly, 
“  that  Charlie  and  Myrtie  are  the  loveliest,  sweetest  cherubs 
I  ever  saw,  and  are  worthy  of  their  mother.” 

Tears  trembled  in  Anna’s  eyes,  as  she  related  to  Bessie  the 
frightful  vision  which  had  so  terrified  her  the  night  before 
Susan’s  departure,  and  how  foolishly  it  had  affected  her  ever 

9# 


102 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


since,  —  the  yawning  mouth  of  that  dark  abyss  seeming  ever 
open  before  her. 

“  Why,  Anna !  ”  exclaimed  she,  “  I  did  not  know  you  were 
so  superstitious ;  it  was  doubtless  the  effect  of  unusual  fatigue 
or  anxiety.  Pray,  don#  be  so  weak  as  to  allow  it  to  trouble 
you  a  moment.” 

The  entrance  of  Marguerite,  with  her  little  charge,  effectu¬ 
ally  put  an  end  to  the  conversation ;  but  it  left  an  unpleasant 
impression  on  Bessie’s  mind,  which  she  in  vain  tried  to  ban¬ 
ish. 

“  When  shall  I  come  for  them  ?  ”  asked  Marguerite,  as  her 
mistress  gently  excused  her. 

“  In  season  to  return  home  to  dinner,”  replied  Anna,  closing 
the  door. 

“  Come,  Charlie,  now  we  ’ll  have  a  good  frolic,”  cried  she, 
as  she  playfully  ran  around  the  room,  while,  with  a  joyous 
bound,  he  caught  her,  to  the  screaming  delight  of  his  baby 
companions. 

Would  that  this  innocent  and  happy  scene  had  no  dark 

S’ 

counterpart,  —  that  as  the  day  had  commenced,  so  it  might 
close,  in  brightness  and  peace  !  But  we  will  not  anticipate, 
save  to  follow  the  steps  of  the  perfidious  nurse,  as  she  glides 
stealthily  along  to  a  thick  copse  by  the  bank  of  the  river. 

“  Is  everything  ready  ?  ”  whispers  a  hoarse  voice. 

“  Everything,  father,”  is  her  response. 

“  Where  are  the  clothes  ?  ” 

“  Yonder,  at  the  foot  of  that  large  tree.” 

“  Bemember,  Marguerite,  act  your  part  well,  on  pain  of  the 
consequences ;  be  here  precisely  at  two,  and  leave  the  rest 

_  C 

to  us.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


103 


“  Marguerite  is  late,”  said  Anna,  looking  at  her  watch ; 
“  what  can  have  detained  her  ?  I  think  I  will  walk  along 
and  meet  her.” 

“  If  we  cannot  persuade  you  to  dine  with  us,”  said  Mr. 
Lindsey,  who  had  just  come  in,  “  I  will  take  little  Myrtie 
and  escort  you.” 

“  Thank  you,  and  if  you  will  repeat  the  favor  to  your  wife 
this  evening,  I  shall  be  doubly  obliged.  Don’t  forget,  Bessie, 
that  you  have  promised  me  a  few  hours-  to-night.” 

“  A  promise  so  pleasant  to  fulfil,”  answered  Bessie,  “  is 
not  likely  to  be  forgotten.” 

“There  is  Marguerite,  now,”  said  Anna,  after  they  had 
walked  a  short  distance  ;  “  but  she  is  coming  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  our  house.” 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Duncan,”  Marguerite  began,  as 
she  hastily  approached  them ;  “  I  thought  I  had  sufficient 
time  to  gather  a  few  of  those  bright  red  berries  Master  Char¬ 
lie  wanted  so  much  this  morning,  and  so  I  ran  up  into  the 
woods  for  them.  -  I  am  -really  very  sorry  to  have  troubled 
you  so  much,  sir,”  added  she,  as  she  took  the  baby  from  his 
arms. 

Mr.  Lindsey  left  them,  and  thoughtfully  walked  home¬ 
ward. 

“  Wife,”  said  he,  as  they  sat  down  to  their  dinner,  “  I 
wish  you  would  advise  your  friend  to  dismiss  her  new  nurse.” 

‘‘Why,  what  can  you  mean,  Herbert  ?  ”  she  asked,  in  sur¬ 
prise  ;  “  we  all  think  her  a  wonderful  person.” 

“I  will  tell  you,  Bessie;  as  I  was  riding  home  this  morn¬ 
ing,  over  an  unfrequented  road,  I  saw  two  persons  earnestly 
engaged  in  conversation.  The  man,  I  judged,  from  his  enor- 


104 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


mous  whiskers  and  heavy  eyebrows,  was  disguised ;  and  his 
companion  was  no  other  than  the  very  meek-eyed  nurse  who 
met  us  just  now,  and,  as  an  apology  for  being  late,  said  she 
had  been  to  gather  berries  for  Charlie  !  Depend  upon  it,  there 
is  something  wrong.” 

Bessie  thought  of  Anna’s  dream,  and  shuddered.  “  I  will 
warn  her  this  very  night,”  said  she. 

“  Have  we  kept  you  long  waiting,  mother  ?  ”  asked  Anna, 
as  Mrs.  Clayton  met  her  at  the  door. 

“  No,  dear ;  your  father  was  unexpectedly  called  to  the  city 
a  few  hours  ago,  and  we  shall  dine  by  ourselves.” 

“  How  lonely  it  seems  without  him,”  said  Anna,  as  they  sat 
at  the  table,  “  he  is  always  so  punctually  in  his  seat.  Will  he 
come  back  to-night  ?  ”  . 

“  I  cannot  tell ;  he  received  a  message,  just  after  you  left, 
saying  that  a  friend  of  his  was  supposed  to  be  dying,  and  he 
must  go  to  him  without  delay.  It  was  a  person  to  whom  your 
father  is  very  much  attached,  and  the  news  agitated  him 
exceedingly.” 

“  Where  is  Marguerite  ?  ”  inquired  Mrs.  Clayton  of  the 
servant  who  answered  the  bell: 

“I  don’t  know,  ma’am;  she  hasn’t  been  round  here  all  the 
forenoon.” 

“  I  should  n’t  be  surprised,”  said  Anna,  “  if  she  has  gone 
to  get  some  more  of  those  berries ;  she  thinks  every  whim  of 
Charlie’s  must  be  gratified.” 

“  Mamma,  come  play  with  me  !  ”  cried  a  sweet  little  voice, 
as  a  bright  face  peered  into  the  room. 

“  In  a  moment,  Charlie,  when  I  have  put  on  the  baby’s  hood.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


105 


“  Now,  what  shall  we  play  ?  ”  said  his  mother,  carefully 
seating  the  wee  thing  upon  a  soft,  grassy  spot. 

“  Let  me  catch  you,  mamma !  ”  and  away  she  jumped, 
dodging  behind  bushes  and  trees,  till,  to  his  infinite  delight, 
the  little  fellow  finally  cornered  her,  and  caught  her  in  his 
plump  arms. 

“  Mamma  is  tired  now !  ”  said  she,  sitting  down  under  a 
tree,  with  the  laughing  baby  in  her  arms. 

Charlie  crept  slyly  along,  and  down  came  a  crimson  shower 
of  berries  over  both,  while  a  shout  of  joy  behind  them  pro¬ 
claimed  the  author  of  the  mischief. 

“  0,  you  rogue !  ”  cried  his  mother,  turning  partly  round 
to  catch  him. 

But  she  suddenly  paused,  as  she  perceived  an  elegant  car¬ 
riage  approaching  them,  and  was  making  a  rapid  retreat  into 
the  house,  when  her  own  name  was  pronounced  in  gentle  tones, 
but  with  a  voice  which  froze  the  very  life-blood  within  her 
heart.  Transfixed  with  surprise  and  dismay,  she  stood  like 
some  lifeless  statue,  speechless  and  immovable. 

“  Do  not  be  so  alarmed,  dear  Anna  !  ”  said  Charles  Duncan 
(for  he  it  was),  approaching  her.  “  I  could  not  live  without 
one  more  look  at  your  sweet  face.  I  have  not  come  to  dis¬ 
turb  your  happiness,  but  I  think  we  should  have  a  more  kindly 
parting  than  our  last.” 

“  0,  Charles !  ”  she  cried,  at  length,  “  what  baseness,  what 
meanness,  thus  to  break  your  pledge,  and  destroy  all  our 
hopes !  ” 

“  lleally  !  So,  then,  you  have  hopes !  ”  returned  he,  deri¬ 
sively.  “  Pray  who  is  the  fortunate  object  of  them  ?  ” 


106 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Charles,  stop  !  ”  cried  she,  with  an  indignant  flush.  “  I 
hope  for  naught  save  to  live  and  die  in  peace  !  ” 

“  Which  you  never  shall !  ”  thundered  he,  as  he  seized  the 
little  ones,  and,  with  the  agility  of  a  cat,  sprang  into  the 
carriage. 

“  What  can  you  mean  ?  ”  screamed  she,  grasping  the  wheel, 
and  placing  herself  before  it. 

One  glance  at  Charles’  priestly' companion  in  the  carriage, 
the  heavy  blows  of  a  stout  whip-handle  mangling  those  deli¬ 
cate  fingers  ere  they  loosed  their  hold,  the  pleading  voices 
of  the  helpless  ones  mingled  with  her  own  piercing  shrieks  for 
aid,  were  the  last  memories  of  Anna’s  reason. 

It  was  a  maniac  who  sped  so  swiftly  after  the  fast-receding 
carriage,  rending  the  air  with  her  unearthly  shrieks,  until 
exhausted  nature  kindly  laid  her  senseless  form  in  the  dust. 
Why,  0  mother  earth,  didst  thou  not  open  thine  arms  and 
receive  this  stricken  one  to  thy  cold  bosom  ?  Rather  would 
we  lay  her  within  thy  dread  embrace,  than  witness  the  spirit’s 
awaking  to  its  deathless  agony  ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 


r  •  “  Awhile  she  stood 

Transformed  by  grief  to  marble  ;  and  appeared 
Her  own  pale  monument  ;  but  when  she  breathed 
The  secret  anguish  of  her  wounded  soul, 

So  moving  were  the  plaints,  they  would  have  soothed 
The  stooping  falcon  to  suspend  his  flight, 

And  spare  his  morning  prey.” 

Fenton’s  “Marianne.” 

Not  until  he  reached  the  city,  and  found  his  friend  in  per¬ 
fect  health  and  safety,  had  Squire  Clayton  one  thought  of 
treachery.  Now,  however,  his  suspicions  were  fully  roused, 
and  visions  of  robbery,  and  murder  even,  of  which  he  might 
be  the  victim,  filled  him  with  apprehension  and  alarm.  Alas ! 
how  did  his  worst  forebodings  sink  into  utter  insignificance,  as 
he  hurriedly  reentered  his  own  home,  and  gazed  with  horror 
upon  that  wreck  of  reason  and  beauty  which  lay  extended 
almost  lifelessly  upon  her  couch  ! 

0,  who  can  break  to  him  the  sad  tale  of  bitter  anguish, 
or  dash  from  his  lips  the  sweet  chalice  of  hopes  which  tiny 
hands  had  raised,  filled  with  life  and  joy  !  None  save  her 
whose  gentle  hand  draws  him  tenderly  from  this  scene  of  woe, 
as,  with  a  mighty  effort  stilling  her  own  grief,  she  gradually, 
though  fearfully,  discloses  the  dreadful  deed  which  had  deso- 


108 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


lated  their  happy  home.  With  firmly-set  teeth  and  clenched 
hands  did  the  grief-stricken  father  listen  to  the  terrible  recital. 

“  I  have  done  it  all !  ”  at  length  exclaimed  he,  hoarsely. 
“  I  see  it  now !  but,  0  God,  what  a  fearful  retribution !  ” 
And  the  strong  man  bowed  his  head  and  wept,  in  the  bitter¬ 
ness  of  his  soul. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  did  he  feel  th q  power  of  those  into 
whose  snare  he  had  fallen,  bearing  with  him  his  own  precious 
child,  an  unwilling  victim.  Past  scenes,  in  which  he  had 
been  but  the  too  willing  dupe  of  arch-deceivers,  flashed  upon 
his  memory,  and  daguerreotyped  there,  with  fearful  distinct¬ 
ness,  his  own  image,  stern,  relentless,  heeding  naught  save  his 
accursed  ambition,  cunningly  guided  by  priestly  influence, 
even  to  the  sacrifice  of  one  dear  as  life  to  him,  and  the  dese¬ 
cration  of  all  her  holiest  affections.  All  was  clear  to  him 
now.  He  had  been  made,  through  the  machinations  of  others, 
the  destroyer  of  his  own  child.  No  less  bitterly  did  he  curse 
his  own  guilt,  because  he,  too,  had  been  the  victim  of  Jesuit 
intrigue.  And  those  innocent  babes,  the  pride  and  joy  of  his 
life,  must  they,  too,  be  sacrificed  ?  He  dared  not  trust  him¬ 
self  to  answer  this  question ;  but  rushed  from  his  dwelling 
with  every  thought  centred  in  one  great  purpose  —  that  earth 
should  contain  no  spot  to  hide  those  treasures  which  he  would 
not  search  for  their  rescue.  Little  dreamed  the  deluded  man 
that,  while  with  frantic  ze£il  he  urged  his  neighbors  on  in  their 
ceaseless,  hopeless  search,  those  Jesuit  miscreants  were  calmly 
sailing  with  their  innocent  prey  over  the  deep  blue  waters, 
laughing  to  scorn  his  futile  attempts;  or  that  inquisitorial 
bolts  and  bars  could  shut  forever  in  Stygian  darkness  those 
helpless  ones !  What  drops  of  anguish  fell  from  his  brow  as 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


109 


he  listened  to  the  piteous  moans  of  the  woe-stricken  mother, 
or  heard  her  piercing  shrieks  for  aid,  as  she  lived  over  again 
the  horrors  of  that  brutal  scene  !  “  Would  to  God,”  he  cried, 
in  his  utter  wretchedness,  “  that  reason  may  never  return,  to 
mock,  with  its  terrible  truth,  my  heart-broken  child  !  ” 

Pale  with  sorrow  and  grief  stood  one  beside  him,  as,  with 
clasped  hands  uplifted,  she  replied,  “  Pray  rather  that  the 
broken  heart  may  find  its  healing  and  rest  in  one  who  died 
for  her !  ”  And  her  face  glowed  with  a  heavenly  light.  The 
old  man  gazed  upon  her  almost  in  awe ;  but  his  prayerless 
heart  beat  no  response,  and  he  turned  away  and  sought  the 
solitude  of  his  chamber,  where  for  days  none  might  witness 
the  secret  mighty  wrestlings  of  his  newly-awakened  soul. 

With  noiseless  step  and  quivering  sympathy,  Bessie  hov¬ 
ered  over  the  insensible  form  of  the  smitten  one,  soothing, 
with  child-like  gentleness,  her  frantic  ravings,  or  weeping 
wildly,  as  those  arms  were  stretched  forth  in  delirious  eager¬ 
ness  to  clasp  the  babes,  who;  alas !  may  never  more  know  a* 
mother’s  love,  or  feel  her  warm  embrace !  Dear  as  Anna  had 
ever  been  to  her,  Bessie’s  heart  now  yearned  with  more  than 
a  sister’s  love  over  her  crushed  and  blighted  existence.  Long, 
earnestly,  agonizingly ,  did  her  prayers  ascend,  that  the  dove 
of  peace,  with  healing  in  its  wings,  might  rest  in  that  stricken 
heart,  filling  with  sweet  hope  and  trust  its  first  awakening  to 
reason  and  its  own  desolation. 

“  And  shure,  ma’am,  there ’s  bin  a  jintleman  afther  yees 
twice  this  morning,”  said  Bridget,  as  Bessie  returned  to  her 
home,  after  a  long,  watchful  night  by  Anna’s  bedside. 

“  Did  he  leave  his  name,  Bridget  ?  ”  said  she,  with  some 
surprise. 


10 


110 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  He  said  he  would  n’t  lave  it,  as  maybees  ye  did  n’t  re- 
mimber  him ;  and  when  I  axed  him  should  I  call  the  minister, 
he  turned  aboot  fornenst  me,  and  said  he ’d  call  agin.” 

“  Who  can  it  be  ?  ”  said  Bessie,  thoughtfully. 

“  He’s  a  fine  raal  jintleman,  anyhow,”  said  Bridget. 

“  Well,  I  shall  know  when  he  comes,”  said  Bessie,  as  she 
kissed  her  baby,  and,  with  a  sigh,  thought  of  the  joyous  ones 
who,  but  a  few  days  "ago,  filled  that  very  room  with  their 
music,  and  were  now  none  knew  where,  —  perhaps  moaning 
their  little  lives  away  in  piteous  cries  for  the  loving  mother 
who  had  ever  soothed  all  their  childish  griefs.  More  closely 
hugged  she  her  own  little  nestling,  as  her  tears  flowed  for  the 
innocent  and  suffering. 

The  swollen  eye  and  quivering  lip  betrayed  her  agitation, 
as  she  rose  to  greet  the  stranger,  whom  Bridget  announced  as 
“  the  jintleman.” 

One  glance  at  the  noble  form  and  handsome  features  before 
her  sufficed  to  remind  Bessie  of  early  days,  and  her  face 
brightened  with  pleasure  as  she  welcomed  Robert  Graham. 
But  thoughts  of  her ,  in  whose  wild  delirium  that  name  had 
been  uttered  with  deep  and  thrilling  tenderness,  mingled  with 
the  loved  and  lost,  saddened  her  heart,  and  again  gushed  her 
tears  for  the  helpless  misery  of  the  loved  one’s  doom. 

“You  have  just  left  her  bedside!”  said  lie,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  emotion.  “  Tell  me,  is  there  any  hope?  ” 

“  Such  hope  as  a  drowning  man  might  have,”  replied 
Bessie,  bitterly,  “  when  his  escape  from  a  watery  grave  is  but 
the  sure  prelude  to  a  living  death  on  a  barren  shore !  ” 

“  Say  not  so  !  ”  —  and  he  shuddered  as  he  spoke;  “  there 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Ill 


may  be  yet  a  gleam  of  light  for  her  whose  whole  life  should 
have  been  one  bright  sunshine  of  happiness !  ” 

Bessie  shook  her  head,  sadly.  “  What  can  now  bring  joy 
to  the  heart  thus  mercilessly  severed  ?  ” 

“  The  love  of  God  !  ”  answered  he,  solemnly. 

“  How  could  I,”  exclaimed  she,  with  emotion,  “  for  one 
moment  seem  to  question  that  unfailing  source  of  light,  or 
despair  of  its  power  to  heal  such  sorrow  ?  It  is  the  only  hope 
I  have  for  our  poor  Anna’s  support,  when  she  becomes  con¬ 
scious  of  her  desolation !  ” 

“  May  that  terrible  awakening  be  softened  by  infinite  love 
and  tenderness !  ”  fervently  ejaculated  he. 

“  But,”  said  Bessie,  “  I  have  not  yet  inquired  for  your 
welfare.  Anna,  lying  there  in  hopeless  grief,  excludes  nearly 
all  else  from  my  thoughts.” 

“T  have  but  little  to  say  of  myself,”  replied  he,  smiling 
sadly.  “  Life  had  lost  for  me  all  its  joy  when  I  left  these 
shores ;  and  now  that  I  return  loaded  with  what  the  world 
calls  wealth,  I  find  it  even  more  desolate  than  before.  Her 
happiness  I  could  have  witnessed  with  thankfulness.  But  to 
see  her  pure,  gentle  spirit  writhing  in  its  agony,  is  torture 
almost  insupportable !  ”  And  tears,  which  had  never  fallen 
for  his  own  sorrows,  now  coursed  each  other  down  his  manly 
cheek,  convulsing  his  whole  frame. 

0,  would  some  ministering  spirit  waft  the  fragrance  of  that 
pure  tribute,  wrung  from  a  noble  heart,  to  the  unconscious 
sufferer,  restlessly  moaning  upon  her  couch  l,  .^Vfould  it  not 
awaken  an  echo  in  that  breast  that  should  bring  back  life  and 
hope  ?  Encircled  by  warm  hearts,  eagerly  waiting  to  lavish 
their  wealth  in  restoring  the  light  of  love  to  the  wandering 


112 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


eye,  cannot  the  past  be  enshrouded  within  its  own  dark  grave, 
and  the  future  filled  with  happiness  and  love?  Alas,  no! 
for  never  can  that  mother’s  undying  love  forget. 

“  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Graham,”  at  length  said  Bessie,  whose 
nice  sense  of  honor  could  not  be  obscured  even  by  her  par¬ 
tiality  ;  “  pardon  me,  but  such  unwonted  emotion  seems  hard¬ 
ly  consistent  with  your  position.”  She  paused,  as  though 
fearful  of  the  offence  her  words  might  give. 

“  May  not  a  brother  mourn  for  the  loved  playmate  of  his 
childhood,  or  grieve  when  some  ruthless  hand  pitilessly  blights 
the  bright  existence  of  his  cherished  sister?  ”  replied  he,  in  a 
gently  reproachful  tone.  “  Even  thus  do  I  njfeurn  my  poor, 
ill-fated  Anna.” 

“  Porgive  me,”  said  Bessie,  ingenuously,  “  for  a  thought 
unworthy  of  your  noble  nature.  As  a  dear  sister  she  has  ever 
wished  to  be  remembered  by  you.” 

“  Why  should  I  not,  then,  claim  a  brother’s  right  to  watch 
over  her  joyless  path,  or  try  to  lift  the  darkness  from  her 
soul?  ”  answered  he,  eagerly.  “  I  feel  assured,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Lindsey,  that  you  will  not  misunderstand  my  feelings  in 
desiring  to  see  and  comfort  this  worse  than  childless  mother.” 

“  I  certainly  shall  not,”  Bessie  replied,  quickly ;  “  but 
there  are  others  whose  opinion  is  of  more  importance.” 

“  I  know  of  none,”  Said  he.  “  With  pure  motives,  hallowed 
by  the  fear  of  God,  I  feel  that  this  sacred  duty  is  mine,  and 
the  smiles  or  frowns  of  the  world  are  alike  to  me.” 

J 

“  But  your  wife,  Mr.  Graham !  ” 

“  Wife !  ”  exclaimed  he,  with  surprise ;  “  you  surely  cannot 
suppose  such  a  being  exists.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


113 


“  Anna  told  me  you  married,  soon  after  you  went  abroad, 
one  who  was  rich  and  beautiful,”  said  Bessie. 

“  Can  it  be  possible  that  such  falsehood  was  added  to 
treachery  !  ”  cried  he.  “  And  she  believed  it?  ” 

“  She  could  scarcely  do  otherwise,”  quoth  Bessie,  “  when 
the  papers  announced  it  to  be  so.  But  she  ever  rejoiced  in 
your  happiness,  so  strangely  contrasted  with  her  own  unhappy 
lot.” 

“  Pure,  unselfish  being!”  exclaimed  Mr.  Graham,  “little 
did  she  know  the  utter  wretchedness  of  my  lonely  life,  till 
beams  of  celestial  radiance  pierced  the  gloom,  and  filled  the 
desolate  heart  with  light  and  peace.  To  Him  who  hath  veiled 
with  his  glory  the  darkness  of  my  own  soul  would  I  lead  that 
dear  sister ;  for  what  but  infinite  love  can  heal  her  bleeding 
heart  ?  ” 

Bessie  listened  with  admiration  to  his  holy  fervor,  and, 
warmly  grasping  his  hand,  as'  he  rose  to  leave,  breathed  the 
hope  that  Anna  might  yet  find  her  support  in  the  same  love. 

'f‘  Before  I  go,”  he  said,  “  may  I  beg  the  favor  of  you, 
Mrs.  Lindsey,  that  you  will  repeat  my  wishes  to  Mr.  Clay¬ 
ton.  Tell  him  that  the  associations  of  childhood  often  restore 
reason,  and  that  only  as  a  brother  would  I  seek  to  lure  back 
to  her  eye  its  wonted  light.  The  rest  I  leave  to  you.” 

“  You  will  find  me  a  willing  advocate,”  replied  Bessie. 

What  death-like  stillness  reigns  within  the  house  so  lately 
echoing  the  gay  laughter  and  merry  gambols  of  light  feet ! 
With  pale  faces  and  saddened  look  do  its  inmates  move  noise¬ 
lessly  about,  for  more  than  the  hush  of  death  is  there.  Upon 
a  bed  whose  snowy  whiteness  scarce  rivals  the  marble  huo 

10* 


* 


114 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


of  her  cheek,  —  fair,  beautiful,  fragile  as  the  lily,  fit  emblem 
of  her  purity,  —  lies  tho-  young  mother,  calling  wildly,  in  her 
madness,  for  the  lost  ones.  Bessie,  the  ever  faithful,  loving 
sister,  bathes  her  brow  and  quietly  lulls  her  to  sleep,  while 
prostrate  in  his  agony  kneels  the  form  of  one  seeking  strength 
for  this  hour  of  trial. 

“Help!  help!”  shrieks  the  maniac,  stretching  forth  her 
arms ;  “  the  wretches  will  tear  them  away  !  See  !  the  priest ! 
he’s  got  them!  Mercy!  mercy!  will  none  have  mercy?” 
Then,  changing  to  passionate  entreaty,  she  cried,  “0,  Charles, 
give  me  my  darlings,  and  I  will  be  your  slave  for  life  !  I  will 
kiss  the  very  dust  off  your, feet!  Hear  their  screams  —  I 
come !  I  come !  ”  and  the  frantic  mother  would  have  leaped 
from  the  bed  to  chase  the  phantoms.  Gently ,<  but  firmly, 
grasping  her  hand,  nerved  with  unnatural  strength,  Robert 
soothed,  with  the  tenderness  of  a  mother,  her  unquiet  spirit. 

“  Come,  Anna,  dear,”  said  he,  in  the  familiar  tones  of 
childhood,  “  let  us  go,  down  to  the  river  and  throw  in  some 

«r 

pebbles  to  make  the  water  ripple.” 

This  simple  allusion  to  their  childish  sports  touched  a 
chord  in  her  memory,  and,  with  a  half-conscious  look,  she 
turned  towards  him  and  whispered,  “  Hush !  where  is  Robert? 
I  thought  I  heard  his  voice.  I  can’t  play  without  him  !  ” 

How  did  the  strong  heart  throb  within  its  narrow  bounds 
at  this  echo  from  the  voices  of  the  past !  But  that  heart  must 
be  closed  to  all  its  thronging  memories,  if  he  would  win 
back  to  light  the  darkened  soul ;  and,  with  firm  and  holy 
purpose,  did  he  daily  breathe  forth  the  treasured  scenes  of 
early  days  to  the  eagerly  listening  ear.  The  spell  of  her 
youth,  wrought  by  the  magic  of  that  familiar  voice,  was 


ANNA  CLAYTON.  115 

speedily  exorcising  the  evil  spirit,  and  but  for  the  woe  which 
awaited  her  return  to  consciousness  Anna’s  friends  would 
have  joyed  in  their  hopes  of  its  restoration.  But  how  shall 
he,  whose  unwearied  efforts  have  calmed  the  frenzied  eye, 
and  led  the  bewildered  mind  back  to  the  dawn  of  reason,  leave 
the  perfection  of  his  work  to  others,  and  go  forth  in  his 
widowed  loneliness  ?  He  feels  instinctively  that  he  must  flee 
from  the  recognition  of  her  pure  spirit,  for  his  heart  hath 
taught  him  that  he  but  mocks  its  truth  in  his  fraternal 
professions.  Now  that  he  has  endeared  himself  to  the  care¬ 
worn  father,  the  anxious  mother,  and  the  faithful  Bessie,  by 
his  untiring  devotion  to  one  who  must  ever  be  to  him  as  a 
sister,  shall  he  remain,  to  forfeit  their  respect,  and  his  own 
too,  by  betraying  the  secret  of  his  heart?  0,  what  mighty 
strivings  of  spirit  are  his  !  what  hours  of  prayerful  self-abase¬ 
ment,  ere  he  can  yield  this  purified  offering  as  sweet  incense 
to  his  Maker !  But  his  earnest  prayers  were  not  unheeded, 
and,  in  a  strength  greater  than  his  own,  he  left  her  presence 
with  high  and  noble  resolves. 

Now  that  the  strong  arm  on  which  the  frail  flower  has 
leaned  is  withdrawn,  what  shall  save  her  from  sinking?  Joy, 
yea,  joy  even  to  thee,  thou  bruised  reed,  for  thy  Saviour’s 
loving  arms  are  gently  encircling  thee;  and,  when  thou 
awakest  to  the  loss  of  thy  earthly  treasures,  thou  wilt  find  in 
him  such  love  as,  through  all  thy  life’s  journey,  shall  sustain 
its  grievous  burden. 

“  If  it  must  be  so,  Mr.  Graham,”  said.  Mrs.  Clayton, 
sadly,  “  I  will  try  to  acquiesce ;  but  what  will  our  poor  Anna 
do?” 


116 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  All  that  human  love  and  tenderness  can  devise,”  he 
replied,  with  deep  emotion,  “  cannot  save  her  from  the  dread¬ 
ful  shock  which  awaits  her  first  moments  of  reason.  Only 
infinite  love  can  soothe  the  agony  of  that  hour ;  and  if  prayers 
and  tears  avail  aught,  she  will  find  a  support  which  all  our 
efforts  would  be  powerless  to  yield.” 

“  But  for  you,  my  dear  sir,” —  and  Mrs.  Clayton’s  voice 
trembled,  —  “  she  might  never  have  been  restored  to  us ;  and 
now  you  do  not  remain  to  witness  the  reward  of  your  efforts.” 

“  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Clayton,  and  you  will  feel 
that  duty,  as  well  as  safety,  bids  me  go.  I  can  look  back 
upon  no  moment  of  my  life  in  which  Anna  was  not  the  first 
object  of  my  love ;  and  when  I  was  sternly  driven  from  her, 
and  barriers  deeper  than  the  ocean  divided  us,  she  became  the 
lone  star  on  which  my  soul  gazed.  It  was  then  I  learned 
that  the  heart’s  yearnings  for  earthly  love  might  have  a 
higher,  holier  object,  and  the  soul  be  filled  with  a  purer  joy. 
As  a  dear  sister  have  I  since  regarded  her ;  and  had  I  found 
her  a  happy  wife  and  mother,  I  could  have  claimed  a  brother’s 
love  only,  and  been  content.  But  seeing  her  heart  broken, 
desolate,  stricken  by  such  sorrow  as  earth  could  scarce  equal, 
has  unsealed  the  fountain  which  I  had  thought  was  closed 
forever ;  and  I  go  forth,  bitterly  conscious  of  my  weakness, 
to  wage  again  the  war  within  my  breast.  Perhaps,  in  making 
this  confession,  I  but  teach  you  to  despise  me  j”  and  he  looked 
anxiously  for  her  reply. 

“Never!”  she  exclaimed,  warmly;  “now  that  I  know 
the  depth  of  your  love,  I  but  admire  the  more  your  noble 
conduct.” 

“  You  can  scarcely  imagine  the  relief  your  words  afford 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


117 


mo,”  he  said,  striving  to  repress  his  emotion ;  “  for  you  will 
not  now  misunderstand  my  motives  in  seeking  to  restore  those 
lost  ones  to  their  mother.” 

Mrs.  Clayton  looked  up  in  surprise.  —  “Every  effort  has 
been  made,  but  no  trace  of  them  can  be  found.” 

“  Yet  we  can  scarcely  doubt,”  added  he,  “  that  they  have 
been  carried  to  their  father’s  home.  So  strong  is  my  convic¬ 
tion  of  this,  that  to-morrow  I  set  sail  for  England,  and  dark 
indeed  must  be  the  spot  which  can  hide  them  from  my  vigi¬ 
lance.”  _ 

•»  **  % 

“  Please,  ma’am,  there ’s  a  girl  in  the  kitchen  would  like  to 
see  you,”  said  the.  servant  who  filled  the  place  of  the  false 
Marguerite. 

“  Show  her  in  here,”  replied  Mrs.  Clayton.  “  I  must  beg 
you  to  wait  a  few  moments,  Mr.  Graham,  as  I  have  much  to 
say  to  you  yet.” 

She  had  scarcely  ceased  speaking,  when  Susan,  pale,  worn 
and  agitated,  entered  the  room,  and  threw  herself  at  her 
feet,  exclaiming,  “Is  she  —  0,  tell  me,  is  my  mistress  still 
alive  ?  ” 

Astonished  beyond  measure  at  her  appearance,  and  still 
more  by  her  anxious  inquiry,  Mrs.  Clayton  replied,  “Your 
mistress  is  alive,  Susan  ;  but  how  came  you  in  this  condition?  ” 
—  pointing  to  her  haggard  face  and  tattered  dress. 

“’Tis  so  terrible!”  said  Susan,  shudderingly,  —  “but 
they  would  have  starved  me  to  death,  if  I  hadn’t  got  away 
and  run  here.’ 

“Who  do  you  mean?”  asked  Mrs.  Clayton,  still  more 
puzzled. 


118 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“Why,  Mr,  Manning  and  another  man,  who  sent  that 
letter  to  get  me  away  from  here,  but  never  to  see  my 

mother.” 

“Tell  me  about  it!”  —  and  Mrs.  Clayton  was  nearly  as 
agitated  as  Susan,  while  Mr.  Graham  listened  with  eager 
attention. 

“  Why,  jmu  see,  they  thought  I  would  n’t  let  them  steal  the 
darlings ;  and  so  I  would  n’t,  if  they  killed  me !  ”  and  she 
sobbed  aloud. 

“  Go  on,  Susan.” 

“  Well,  when  I  had  got  to  the  crossing  where  the  letter  said 
some  one  would  meet  me,  they  carried  me  away  and  shut  me 
in  a  dark  room,  with  nothing  but  bread  and  water;  — all  that 
did  n’t  hurt  me  so  much  as  what  I  heard  them  say  about  my 
poor  mistress.” 

“  What  was  that  ?  ”  asked  Mr.  Graham,  hurriedly. 

“  Why,  after  I  had  been  there  about  a  week,  I  should  think, 
I  heard  some  voices  talking  loud  in  the  next  room.  One  of 
them  was  Mr.  Duncan’s,  and  Mr.  Manning’s  too,  but  I  did  n’t 
know  the  others,  and  Mr.  Manning  was  quarrelling  about  the 
price  he  was  to  get  for  carrying  me  away.  And  then  some 
one  asked  how  they  were  going  to  get  the  children ;  and  Mr. 
Duncan  said  he  could  fix  that  easy  enough,  —  that  Margue¬ 
rite  was  there,  and  would  do  as  they  told  her.  0,  how  I  did 
cry  when  I  found  out  their  wicked  plan,  and  that  Marguerite 
was  such  a  bad  girl !  But  I  could  n’t  get  away,  for  they  had 
fastened  me  in.” 

“  Did  you  hear  them  say  what  they  should  do  with  the 
children  ?  ” 

“  They  said  something  about  a  vessel  and  England,  but  I 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


119 


could  n’t  tell  what.  I  was  all  the  time  thinking  about  those 

innocent  little  children,  and  how  it  would  kill  my  poor  mis- 

^  • 

tress  to  have  them  so  cruelly  stolen  away.” 

“Was  that  all  you  heard,  Susan?  You  must  remember  all 
you  can,  for  this  gentleman  is  going  to  try  to  find  them,  and 
perhaps  you  can  help  him.” 

“Well,  then,  I  will  try  and  think,”  said  Susan.  “I  don’t 
know  how  long  it  was  afterwards,  Mr.  Manning  came  to  that 
house,  and  the  woman  asked  him  how  they  got  along.  ‘  0, 
nicely,’  said  he  ;  ‘  they  ’re  half  way  across  the  Atlantic  now ;  ’ 
—  and  when  she  told  him  not  to  speak  so  loud,  for  fear,  I 
suppose,  that  I  should  hear,  he  laughed  louder  yet,  and  said, 
‘She  won’t  tell  anymore  tales,- 1  guess.’  So  I  knew  they 
meant  to  kill  me,  and  every  day  I  tried  to  get  away,  till 
yesterday,  when  the  old  woman  came  in  to  give  me  some 

■0 

bread  and  water,  I  caught  her  and  tied  her  hands  with  some 
strings  I  made  of  my  clothes,  and  then  ran  as  fast  as  I  could, 
when  I  came  up  with  a  wagon,  and  asked  the  man  to  let  me 
ride,  and  he  brought  me  most  here.” 

“  Poor  child !  ”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clayton,  “  you,  too,  have 
suffered,  but  you  shall  be  tenderly  nursed  now.” ' 

“I  am  persuaded,”  at  length  said  Mr.  Graham,  hastily 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  “  that  this  has  been  a  deep- 
laid  plot,  for  some  dark  object;  and  Susan’s  sad  story  makes 
me  more  determined  to  search  it  out.” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

>  *  ♦  . 

“  Generous  as  brave, 

Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  offices 

Of  love  and  duty,  were  t<5  him  as  needful 

As  his  daily  bread.”  Rogers. 

The  light  of  a  new  day  was  gently  stealing  within  the 
darkened  chamber,  revealing  in  its  softened  beams  the  pallid 
features  and  wasted  form  of  the  unconscious  sleeper,  and  the 
anxious  faces  of  those  who  through  the  still  night  had  kept 
their  silent  watch.  From  that  long  and  quiet  sleep  will  her 
spirit  awake  with  the  light  of  other  days ;  or,  is  this  but  its 
entrance  to  immortality  ?  The  muffled  tread,  hushed  voices, 
and  throbbing  hearts,  are  but  silent  witnesses  of  the  hopes  and 
fears  which  fill  each  bosom,  as  they  tremblingly  await  the 
dreaded  crisis.  Life  and  death,  struggling  each  for  the  victory, 
seem  so  nicely  balanced,  that  none  may  tell  which  shall 
triumph.  All  that  medical  skill  and  untiring  love  can  devise 
has  been  done,  and  now  in  prayerful  suspense  do  they  rest  their 
hopes  upon  the  Great  Physician,  who  alone  can  lift  the  veil 
of  darkness  from  her  soul,  and  fill  her  joyless  heart  with  un¬ 
measured  bliss.  ‘With  cheerful  hope  and  unwavering  trust  in 
his  mercy,  we  leave  her,  to  wander  forth  with  one  who,  intent 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


121 


on  noble  deeds,  is  already  dashing,  o’er  ocean’s  trackless  path, 
towards  the  English  shore.  Full  of  anticipation,  he  heeds  not 
the  fierce  lashing  of  angry  waves  on  the  frail  vessel ;  and  when, 
in  her  weakness,  she  yields  to  the  mighty  power  which  naught 
earthly  can  control,  and  lies  a  helpless,  shattered  wreck  upon 
the  boiling,  surging  sea,  mingled  with  his  thanks  for  deliver¬ 
ance  is  the  prayer  that  thus  he  may 'not  be  delayed  in  his 
cherished  object.  As  if  in  answer  to  this  petition,  a  friendly 
bark  receives  and  safely  conveys  him  to  the  land  where,  in 
imagination,  he  has  already  found  the  lost  babes.  He  forgets 
that  an  influence  more  potent  than  royalty  itself,  and  to  which 
he  must  inevitably  yield,  meets  his  first  step  ;  nor  does  he 
know  that  watchful  eyes  are  regarding  him  with  keen  interest 
as  he  hastens  on  shore,  in  his  impatient  zeal  forgetful  of  all 
else,  save  his  errand  of  mercy.  Deluded  man  !  he  has  yet  to 
learn  that  priestly  despotism,  with  its  thousand  argus  eyes 
ever  on  the  alert,  will  but  scoff  at  his  powerless  efforts  to  trace 
its  dark  path,  or  rescue  from  its  iron  grasp  its  chosen  vic¬ 
tims  !  , 

?  '  ■ 

“  The  thing  is  easily  enough  managed,”  said  the  very  rever¬ 
end  father  to  Bernaldi,  as  they  sat  together,  a  few  mornings 
after  the  arrival  of  Robert  Graham  ;  —  “  from  his  movements, 
we  may  look  for  him  now  at  any  time,  and  you  must  remain 
at  Beechgrove  to  guide  that  foolish  fellow’s  tongue,  or  else, 
in  his  blundering  wray,  he  may  betray  us.  Beat  it  into  his 
thick  brain,  if  you  can,  that  he  is  to  be  utterly  ignorant  of 
everything  pertaining  to  the  children,  and  don’t  suffer  him  to 
make  any  remarks  whatever.  And,  another  thing,  —  warn 
Marguerite.” 


11 


122 


ANNA  CLAYTON, 


“  You  have  given  me  a  hard  task,”  replied  Bernaldi.  “I 
had  rather  undertake  anything  than  to  manage  Duncan’s 
tongue.  But  curse  me  if  I  don’t  send  that  infernal  Graham 
back  emptier  than  he  came!  I  know  his  mettle,  and  ’twill  be 
rare  sport  to  break  it,  and  teach  him  to  let  other  folks’  busi¬ 
ness  alone.”  So  saying,  he  left  the  house,  mounted  his  steed, 
and  was  soon  gayly  pacing  along  the  road  which  led  to  Beech- 
grove.  He  had  gained  but  half  the  distance,  when,  suddenly 
turning,  he  perceived  a  horseman  advancing  rapidly  to  over¬ 
take  him  ;  and  one  keen  glance  from  under  those  heavy  eye¬ 
brows  sufficed  to  reveal  to  him  the  well-remembered  features 
of  Robert  Graham.  The  Jesuit  was  himself  at  once,  and 
courteously  awaiting  the  approach  of  the  stranger,  saluted 
him  in  his  blandest  tones. 

“  I  am  somewhat  fearful,”  said  Robert,  returning  the  salu¬ 
tation,  “  that  I  made  a  wrong  turn  a  few  miles  back,  and 
should  be  greatly  obliged  if  you  can  direct  me,  by  the  nearest 
course,  to  Beechgrove.” 

“  The  obligation  will  rest  upon  me,”  replied  Bernaldi ; 
“  for,  as  I  am  going  thither  myself,  and  the  ride  is  somewhat 
lonely,  I  shall  be  thankful  for  such  agreeable  company.” 

“  Really !  ”  exclaimed  Robert.  “  Then,  perhaps,  you  know 
Mr.  Duncan.”  _  - 

“  It  is  easy  to  perceive  that  you  are  not  an  Englishman,” 
quoth  Bernaldi,  laughing,  “  or  Sir  Charles  would  not  be  so 
unceremoniously  stript  of  his  title.  I  know  Sir  Charles  Dun¬ 
can  very  well,”  added  he,  good-humoredly. 

“  I  meant  no  offence  to  Sir  Charles,”  replied  Robert ;  “  but 
we  Americans,  so  simple  in  our  habits,  do  not  easily  fall  into 
your  aristocratic  notions.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


123 


“  You  are  from  America,  then? ” 

“  I  have  but  recently  arrived  from  there.” 

“  And  you  know  Sir  Charles  ?  ”  queried  Bernaldi. 

“  I  cannot  say  I  know  him  personally,  having  never  seen 
him.  Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  one  of  his  friends  ?  ” 
said  Robert,  turning  towards  Bernaldi. 

“  I  am  his  friend ;  but  Sir  Charles  is  not  a  person  to  at¬ 
tract  any  warmer  feeling.  Hunting  and  fishing  are  about  all 
he  cares  for,  except  Lady  Emilie.” 

“  And  who  is  she,  pray  ?  ” 

“  His  affianced  bride,”  said  Bernaldi,  keenly  eying  him. 

Robert  started,  changed  color,  but,  fearful  of  betraying 
himself  too  far,  said,  carelessly, 

“  Then  he  is  married  !  ” 

“  Not  yet,”  replied  Bernaldi ;  “  but  great  preparations  are 

making  for  the  event,  which,  it  is  said,  will  speedily  take 

%  •  1 

place.  Lord  Be  Vere  insists  upon  great  pomp  and  ceremony 
in  the  marriage  of  his  only  child  ;  and  Sir  Charles  is  too  well 
pleased  with  the  beautiful  heiress  to  care  for  the  arrange¬ 
ments.  So  it  is  thought  the  affair  will  exceed  in  magnificence 
nobility  itself.” 

Robert  rode  on  in  silence,  assuming  an  indifference  he  was 
far  from  feeling.  Shocked  beyond  the  power  of  expression  at 
the  perfidy  of  the  wretch,  who  dared  to  add  dishonor  to  the 
wrongs  he  had  already  committed  against  his  pure  wife,  he 
scarcely  knew  what  course  to  pursue.  He  would  gladly  con¬ 
fide  in  his  chance  companion,  and  seek  counsel  of  him ;  but 
he  knew  not  who  or  what  he  might  be,  and  the  secret  must, 
therefore,  remain  locked  in  his  own  breast.  He  was  roused 
from  his  revery  by  the  voice  of  Bernaldi,  who  exclaimed, 


124 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“This  way,  if  you  please  —  this  is  Beechgrove.”  And, 
turning  their  horses’  heads,  they  cantered  briskly  through  a 
broad  avenue,  shaded  by  noble  trees,  whose  luxuriant  foliage 
formed  a  magnificent  arch  above  them.  With  a  mind  at  ease, 
Robert  would  have  revelled  in  such  beauty  as  everywhere 
filled  his  eye ;  but  the  pale,  wan  face  of  one  whose  stolen 
treasures  he  sought  looked  forth  pleadingly  from  each  shrub 
and  flower,  and  his  heart  needed  no  stronger  appeal  to  urge 
him  on. 

The  cunning,  crafty  priest  succeeded  in  impressing  upon 
Charles  the  necessity  of  following  his  instructions  implicitly, 
if  he  would  not  be  thwarted  in  his  marriage  with  Lady 
Emilie ;  and  then,  with  great  affability,  presented  him  to  the 
stranger,  who  had  overtaken  him  in  his  ride  thither,  but  whose 
name  he  had  not  yet  the  pleasure  of  knowing. 

“  The  simple,  untitled  name  of  Robert  Graham  is  all  I  can 
boast,”  replied  he, handing  each  a  card;  “and, as  I  have  very 

V./  v  x  M 

important  business  with  Sir  Charles,  I  would  beg  the  privilege 
of  a  few  moments’  private  conversation.” 

“  If  Sir  Charles  desires,  I  will  retire,”  said  Bernaldi,  rising. 
“  But  probably  Mr.  Graham  is  not  aware  of  our  relation  to 
each  other.” 

“  No,  good  father,”  quoth  Charles;  “  pray  be  seated.  As 
he  is  my  father-confessor,”  he  added,  turning  to  Robert,  “  I 
can  have  no  secrets  from  him.  Your  business,  therefore, 
whatever  its  nature, you  need  not  fear  to  disclose  before  him.” 

Robert  hesitated,  as  the  the  ight  flashed  upon  him  that  this 
might  be  the  very  priest  Ann*  called  upon  so  loudly  in  her 
madness;  and,  if  so,  any  attempt  to  rescue  the  children  he 
would  probably  defeat. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


125 


“  I  see,”  said  Bernaldi,  again  rising,  “  that  Mr.  Graham 
considers  mo  an  intruder,  and  I  •will  therefore  relieve  you 
both  of  my  presence.”  ' 

“  I  tell  you,  Father  Bernaldi,”  impatiently  interrupted 
Charles,  “  what  I  jus$  now  told  Mr.  Graham.  I  have  no 
secrets  from  you,  neither  do  I  wish  to  have  ;  so  I  beg  you  to 
sit  quietly,  while  Mr.  Graham  will  do  me  the  honor  to  com¬ 
municate  his  business  with  me.” 

Thus  called  upon,  Robert  felt  that  he  could  hesitate  no 
longer ;  and,  turning  to  the  confessor,  he  said,  ingenuously, 

“  I  did  prefer  to  see  Sir  Charles  alone,  as  I  judged,  from 
your  remarks  by  the  way,  that  he  had  kept  one  secret,  at  least, 
which  I  would  not  willingly  betray  without  his  consent.  But, 
as  he  assures  me  it  is  not  so,  and  bids  me  proceed,  I  will 
do  so.  I  come  to  bring  you  tidings,  Sir  Charles,  of  your 
pure  and  lovely  wife,  whom  you  trampled  in  the  dust,  and 
left  shrieking  in  her  wild  despair,  as  you  tore  from  her  bosom 
those  helpless  babes,  and  bore  them  from  her  sight !  ” 

Robert  had  risen  from  his  seat,  and  stood  calmly,  sternly 
gazing  into  Sir  Charles’  face,  as  he  addressed  him.  The  latter 
at  first  assumed  a  puzzled  look ;  but,  as  Robert  concluded,  he 
exchanged  glances  with  the  priest,  and  both  burst  into  an 
immoderate  fit  of  laughter. 

“  I  declare,”  cried  Charles,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak, 
“  that ’s  too  good  to  be  lost.  Ila !  ha  !  ha  !  Why,  bless  you, 
Graham,  you  ’re  capital  at  a  joke.  I  have  n’t  heard  anything 
better,  these  many  days.  Hal  ha!  ha!  ” 

“  What  do  you  mean,  sir?”  exclaimed  Robert,  looking  at 
him  in  astonishment  and  anger.  “  Is  it  her  memory  you 
would  insult,  or  me,  her  humble  advocate  ?  ” 

11# 


126 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Neither,  ’pon  my  word,”  said  Charles.  “Hut  —  ha !  ha ! 
ha !  You  must  excuse  my  laughing.  What  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  I  should  think  my  words  were  sufficiently  plain  to  be 
understood.  If  not,  yxmr  own  conscience  may  help  explain 
them,”  replied  Robert,  with  extreme  disgust. 

“  Ha!  ha  !  ha  !  — You  ’ll  certainly  kill  me,  yet.  Pray  find 
out,  if  you  can,  good  father,  what  he ’s  up  to  !  ” 

“  If  I  could  see  any  symptoms  of  insanity  about  Mr.  Gra¬ 
ham,”  Bernaldi  answered,  laughing, ’t  would  be  easy  to 
account  for  his  strange  words  ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  am  only  amused 
at  the  ludicrous  mistake  he  has  made.  Why,  my  dear  sir,  to 
talk  about  wife  and  babes  to  a  man  just  on  the  eve  of  getting 
married,  is  most  laughably  absurd !  But ’t  will  do  very  well 
as  a  joke,  I  confess.” 

“  Gentlemen,”  cried  Robert,  “  you  will  drive  me  mad !  As 
sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  your  unpardonable  hypoc¬ 
risy  will  meet  a  just  punishment !  If  there  is  any  justice  in 
England’s  laws,  you,  Sir  Charles,  shall  be  made  to  feel  it,  and 
render  your  terrible  account  before  a  higher  tribunal  than 
mine !  ”  And  he  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  shook  their 
craven  hearts. 

“  Why,  really,  Mr.  Graham,”  —  and  Bernaldi’s  voice  was 
mild  and  bland,  —  “I  had  no  thought  you  were  in  earnest, 
in  charging  Sir  Charles  with  the  horrible  crime  to  which  you 
alluded.  Pray,  explain  yourself  further,  and  we  may  get 
some  clue  that  will  enable  us  to  assist  you,  if,  indeed,  you  are 
seriously  in  search  of  such  a  monster  as  you  described.” 

Robert  gazed  into  the  calm,  unruffled  face  of  the  speaker 
with  distrust ;  but  the  J esuit  eye  quailed  not  as  it  met  his 
own  searching  glance. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


127 


“  You  would  persuade  me,  if  possible,”  at  length  said  he, 
“  that  I  am  a  dreamer,  crossing  the  ocean  on  a  fool’s  errand, 
only  to  be  laughed  at  here  as  playing  off  a  good  joke.  Now, 
though  it  can  be  no  news  to  you,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  came.  A 
wife  and  mother  the  pride  of  our  village,  beloved  by  all  save 
the  wretch  who  called  himself  her  husband,  has  been  despoiled 
of  her  treasures  by  ruffian  hands  ;  and  their  daring  plot,  so 
brutally  consummated,  is  traced  to  you,  Sir  Charles,  and  a 
priestly  accomplice !  Before  God,  I  charge  you  with  that 
dark  and  fearful  deed,  which  will  yet  be  terribly  avenged !  ” 

“  And  who  are  you,  sir,”  cried  Bernaldi,  springing  to  his 
feet  and  choking  with  rage,  “  that  dare  thus  insult  a  gentle¬ 
man  1  Such  language  is  not  to  be  used  with  impunity  by  a 
low-born  fellow  like  you ;  and  if  Sir  Charles  serves  you  right, 
he  will  put  you  where  you  will  not  be  likely  to  try  it  again.” 

“  Sir  Charles  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,”  replied  Robert, 
very  coolly.  “And  you,  sir  priest,  under  that  smooth  and 
Pharisaical  face,  carry  a  coward’s  heart.  I  fear  you  not. 
But,  Sir  Charles,  I  have  not  yet  done  with  you.  All  your 
efforts  to  deceive  me  are  vain.  I  see  the  trembling  heart 
beneath  your  foolish  subterfuge,  and  I  now  demand  of  you 
the  whole  truth  1” 

“  By  what  authority,  sir?”  demanded  Charles. 

“  By  the  authority  of  Him  who  has  nerved  this  arm  with 
strength,  and  this  heart  with  determination,  to  defend  the 
helpless  and  innocent  from  such  inhuman  outrages  L  ” 

“  Young  man,”  interrupted  Bernaldi,  “  I  bid  you  beware 
the  consequences  of  your  violent  abuse.  If  you  will  insist 
upon  it  that  Sir  Charles  (who,  by  the  way,  has  never  been  in 
America)  is  the  person  you  denounce  for  stealing  his  own 


128 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


children,  then  search  his  domains,  inquire  strictly  of  all  you 
see,  and  when  you  are  convinced  of  your  mistake,  no  apology 
can  be  too  humble  for  such  conduct.”  With  an  offended  air 
he  took  Charles’  arm,  and  they  left  the  room. 

IIow  powerless  did  Robert  now  feel,  as  the  taunting  words 
of  the  priest  still  rang  in  his  car,  embittering  his  disappoint¬ 
ment  !  How  did  he  reproach  himself,  lest  he  had  thwarted 
his  own  object  by  hasty  words  !  To  search  for  the  children 
now,  would  only  subject  him  to  further  ridicule ;  so  he  would 
return  to  his  hotel,  to  devise,  if  possible,  some  means  to  out- 
reach  both  Sir  Charles  and  his  confessor.  Sadly  he  rode 
through  the  noble  forest,  passed  the  chateau,  where,  uncon¬ 
sciously,  he  was  the  subject  of  much  conversation,  and, 
throwing  the  bridle-rein  loosely  upon  the  horse’s  neck,  he  gave 
himself  up  to  the  all-engrossing  subject  that  brought  him  there. 
Sir  Charles’  identity  he  could  not  doubt ;  —  that  they  had 
assumed  ignorance  as  the  easiest  way  to  rid  themselves  of 
troublesome  inquiries,  was  also  plain  to  him.  How  he  should 
now  proceed,  was  a  question  which  required  no  little  wisdom 
and  sagacity. 

He  had  not  long  to  reflect,  ere  the  sound  of  horses’  feet  ap¬ 
proaching  in  the  same  direction  caused  him  to  draw  in  his 
rein,  and  turn  aside,  that  the  rider  might  easily  pass. 

“  I  have  hastened  after  you,”  said  Bernaldi,  “  to  make 
some  amends  for  words  which  I  should  not  have  used,,  had  Sir 
Charles  been  faithful  in  the  confessional.  I  find,  from  what  he 
has  told  me  since  we  saw  you,  that  you  were  not  mistaken  in 
tho  person,  as  I  supposed.  I  knew  he^  had  led  a  light  and 
frivolous  life,  but  to  what  extent  I  have  only  just  learned. 
You  will  pardon  me,  I  am  sure,  for  defending  one  whom  I 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


129 


thought  innocent ;  ”  and  he  proffered  his  hand,  in  a  most  con¬ 
ciliatory  manner. 

“  If  it  was  in  ignorance  that  you  sought  to  deceive  me, 
and  not  by  design,  as  I  supposed,  I  am  bound  to  receive 
your  apology,”  replied  Robert ;  “  especially  if,  now  that 
}tou  are  enlighteued,  you  will  acknowledge  the  justice  of  my 
charges.” 

“The  truth  is,”  said  Rernaldi,  “as, Sir  Charles  informs 
me,  he  took  a  fancy  to  visit  America,  while  we  thought  him 
either  in  France  or  travelling  on  the  continent ;  and,  as  young 
men  of  his  cast  arc  apt  to  do,  he  formed  a  strong  attach¬ 
ment  to  a  very  beautiful  girl  there,  and  professed  to  marry 
her,  though  the  person  employed  to  perform  the  ceremony 
was  one  of  his  cronies,  and  of  course  the  marriage  was  ille¬ 
gal.  Hearing  of  his  father’s  illness,  and  extreme  desire  to 
see  him',  he  hastened  home  just  in  time  to  receive  his 
blessing,  with  an  earnest,  dying  request  that  he  would  marry 
the  daughter  of  a  dear  friend,  whose  influence,  he  trusted, 
would  win  him  from  his  wild  habits.  Had  Sir  Charles  then 
confided  in  me,  all  might  have  been  well ;  but,  in  his  new 
passion  for  Lady  Emilie,  he  remembered  only  that  no  legal 
ties  bound  him  in  America,  and,  therefore,  there  was  no  obsta¬ 
cle  to  his  marrying  as  his  father,  and  now  his  own  heart, 
desired.  He  could  not,  however,  so  easily  forget  his  two 
beautiful  children and,  with  what  object  I  know  not,  nor 
does  he  himself  knowr,  he  took  them  from  their  mother  and 
conveyed  them  to  France,  where  they  may  be  educated  as 
becomes  his  children.  All  this  I  have  gathered  from  him 
since  you  saw  him ;  and  now  that  I  have  made  the  explana¬ 
tion  I  thought  due  to  you,  I  will  bid  you  good-day,  with 


130 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


* 


assurances  of  regret,  on  my  part,  at  our  misunderstanding 
this  morning.” 

“  Stay,  stay !  ”  cried  Robert,  as  Bernaldi  turned  to  leave 
him.  “I  must  know  more  about  this  —  when  can  I  see  you 
again  ?  ” 

^  i 

“  Call  at  the  chateau,  yonder,  to-morrow,  at  ten  o’clock,  and 
I  will  be  there  to  meet  you.” 

Surprise  and  indignation  had  so  wrought  upon  Robert’s 
mind,  during  the  priest’s  story,  that  he  had  not  ventured  to 
reply,  lest  he  should  have  occasion  again  to  regret  his  hasti¬ 
ness.  This  he  now  felt  to  have  been  the  wisest  course ;  and  he 
returned  to  the  hotel  to  prepare  at  leisure  for  the  morrow’s 

interview,  upon  which  important  results  depended. 

—  *\ 

“  Gentlemen,  I  must  rely  upon  your  honor  !  ”  said  Robert, 
looking  earnestly  at  his  companions.  “  It  was  my  intention 
yesterday,  when  I  left  Sir  Charles,  to  have  a  public  investi¬ 
gation  of  the  matter ;  but,  if  you  can  assist  me  in  finding  the 
children,  I  care  not  a  farthing  for  him.” 

“  What  we  have  told  you,”  replied  Bishop  Percy,  very 
mildly,  “  is  from  Sir  Charles’  own  confession.  I  fully  agree 
with  you  in  condemning  his  rash  act,  and  am  ready  to  offer 
you  any  assistance  in  my  power.” 

“  I  wish  you  both  to  understand,”  added  Robert,  “  that  I 
have  not  a  doubt  of  the  validity  of  their  marriage,  and  shall 
advise  Mrs.  Duncan  to  establish  it  at  once.” 

“  There,  Mr.  Graham,”  interrupted  Bernaldi,  handing 
him  a  paper,  “  I  have  made  out  a  complete  directory  for 
you ;  so  I  think  you  will  find  no  difficulty  in  tracing  them.” 

“  And  you  are  sure  I  shall  find  them  there?  ”  asked  Robert. 


I 


ANNA  CLAYTON.  131 

“We  have  no  reason  to  doubt  it,”  they  both  replied.  “  Sir 
Charles  declares,  upon  his  oath,  that  he  left  them  in  the  care 
of  the  abbess  whose  name  I  have  given  you,  though  he  did 
not  know  that  we  should  inform  you.  Wo  do  it,  however, 
from  a  sense  of  justice  to  the  suffering  mother,  and  also  to 
convince  you  of  our  own  ignorance  and  blamelessness  in  the 
whole  transaction.” 

“  I  will  trust  you,  then,”  frankly  said  Robert,  “  and  shall 
set  forth  this  very  day.” 

“  Not  until  we  have  dined  together,”  added  the  bishop, 
ringing  his  bell.  “  You  and  our  good  Bernaldi  here  must 
smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  over  a  fricassee.” 

“  Nothing  easier  or  pleasanter,”  rejoined  the  priest,  laugh- 
ingly. 

A  more  experienced  observer  might,  perhaps,  havo  seen,  in 
their  unwonted  cordiality  and  apparent  sincerity,  some  covert 
design ;  but,  truthful  and  guileless  himself,  Robert  Graham’s 
suspicions,  whatever  they  might  have  been,  were  speedily 
quieted  by  their  seeming  interest  in  his  plans,  and  evident 
desire  to  assist  him  in  their  accomplishment. 

“  I  feel  that  I  have  wronged  you,”  was  his  ingenuous  con¬ 
fession,  when  leaving  them,  “  and  shall  bear  the  remembrance 
of  your  kindness  with  me  in  my  lonely  search.” 

Then  did  the  hearts  of  those  deceivers  bound  within  them 
at  the  success  of  their  duplicity.  They  had  met  and  duped 
the  one  they  most  feared,  and  what  should  now  stay  their 
hand  from  perfecting  their  own  dark  purposes  ? 

“  I  tell  you,”  exclaimed  the  bishop,  bringing  down  his  hand 
upon  the  table  with  an  energy  that  made  his  companion  start, 


132 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  I  tell  you  this  marriage  must  be  prevented,  or  yours  is  a 
life-long  work !  ” 

“Well  do  I  know  that,”  replied  Bernaldi;  “but  how 
shall  we  manage  ?  Graham  will  find  out,  before  long,  that  he 
is  on  the  wrong  scent,  and  we  may  expect  him  back  like  a 
hyena  upon  us.  We  ought  to  have  the  thing  done  before 
that.” 

“  I  will  think  the  matter  over,  and  by  to-morrow  we  can  be 
ready  to  act.” 

To-morrow  !  How  many  lips  have  uttered  that  word,  which 
never  breathed  its  existence !  To  how  many  has  its  looked- 
for  light  been  but  darkness,  —  the  grave  of  their  brightest 
hopes ! 

“  To-morrow,”  Sir  Charles  had  said  to  Lady  Emilie,  “  we 
will  sail  over  the  waters  of  yonder  beautiful  lake,  happy  in 
our  mutual  love,  and  each  living  but  in  the  other’s  smile.” 

“  To-morrow  ”  saw  the  fair  maiden  bending  in  wild  grief 
over  the  dripping,  lifeless  form  of  her  lover ;  while,  with  ill- 
suppressed  rage,  the  thrice-baffled  priest  gazed  on  the  face  of 
the  dead.  The  work  had  been  done  too  soon  for  him ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

“  0  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flowering  face ! 

Did  ever  dragon  keep  so  fair  a  cave  ? 

Beautiful  tyrant !  fiend  angelical ! 

Dove- feathered  raven  !  wolfish-ravening  lamb! 

Despised  substance  of  divinest  show  ! 

Just  opposite  to  what  thou  justly  seemest.” 

Shakspeare. 

“  Another  letter  from  Robert,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clayton, 
as  she  entered  the  parsonage,  and  seated  herself  beside  its  fair 
mistress. 

“  Indeed  !  ”  replied  Bessie,  “  and  if  I  may  judge  from  your 
face,  it  is  not  a  very  sad  one,  either.” 

“  No,  he  is  full  of  hope,”  said  Mrs.  Clayton ;  “  but  read 
for  yourself,”  —  and  she  handed  her  the  letter. 

“  I  write  hastily,”  —  thus  the  letter  ran,  —  “just  as  I  am 
on  the  point  of  starting  for  France.  In  my  last  I  told  you 
I  had  determined  to  seek  an  interview  with  Sir  Charles  Dun¬ 
can  (as  he  is  styled  here),  as  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  reach 
his  heart,  if  he  had  one.  The  cool  and  insulting  manner  in 
which  he  received  my  appeals  proved  him  to  be  the  villain 
we  thought  him ;  and,  were  it  not  that  he  had  given  his  con¬ 
science  to  another’s  keeping,  all  my  efforts  to  trace  the  lost 
12 


134 


\ 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

ones  would  have  been  fruitless.  But,  thanks,  for  once,  to  that 
system  (I  cannot  call  it  religion)  which  places  a  man’s 
thoughts  and  actions  at  the  disposal  of  a  mortal  like  himself, 
the  secrets  of  his  confessional  were  confided  to  me  by  those 
who  would  thus  screen  themselves  and  their  church  from  his 
infamous  conduct.  Had  I  not  a  dearer  object  at-  heart,  I 
would  remain  here  to  expose  his  villany  and  perfidy,  of  which 
even  you  do  not  yet  know  all.  But  the  pleading  tones  of  a 
sweet  voice,  ever  sounding  in  my  ear,  bid  me  hasten  to  restore 
to  the  desolated  home  its  light  and  life.  I  leave  this  very 
hour  for  France,  where,  according  to  minute  directions  given 
me  by  Duncan’s  confessor,  and  his  holy  leader,  Bishop  Percy, 
I  may  learn  tidings  of  those  I  seek,  and  perchance  bear  the 
precious  burden  to  your  arms.” 

“  May  Grod  reward  such  devotion !  ”  cried  Bessie,  as  she  con¬ 
cluded.  “  What  a  happy  life  would  have  been  Anna’s,  with 
one  so  noble!”  •  * 

“  But,  then,”  replied  Mrs.  Clayton,  with  a  sigh,  “  she  might 
have  been  satisfied  with  earthly  love.  Let  us  not  distrust  the 
wisdom  of  Him  who  hath  led  her  through  such  dark  paths  to 
his  own  bright  presence,  or  fear  to  trust  in  his  hands  the  lives 
of  those  darling  ones.”  *  •  ■> 

“Blessed  be  his  name,”  fervently  responded  Bessie,  “  that 
our  prayers  are  answered,  and  dear  Anna’s  heart  filled  with 
holy  peace  !  Will  you  dare  tell  her  of  Robert’s  success?  ” 

“  I  fear  to  excite  hopes  which  may  not  be  realized,  and  yet 
I  can  scarcely  refrain  from  cheering  her  with  such  good 
news,”  Mrs.  Clayton  answered. 

“  But,  if  Robert  should  return  with  the  children,  as  he 
hopes,  it  would  be  well  to  have  her  prepared  for  it,  as  her 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


135 


feeble,  shattered  system  could  not  bear  another  shock,  even 
of  joy.”  _ 

“  Well  might  Bessie  say  that  my  poor  Anna  can  bear  no 
more,”  thought  Mrs.  Clayton,  as  she  bent,  that  night,  with 
yearning  tenderness,  over  the  shrunken,  wasted  form  which 
told  of  grief  and  Suffering,  and  kissed  the  pallid  brow  where 
still  rested  the  deep  traces  of  great  sorrow.  But  the  soul 
beamed  forth  with  its  wonted  light,  and  the  eye,  though 
dimmed  with  tears,  no  longer  wandered  in  maniacal  darkness. 

“  Pray  for  me,  mother,”  murmured  Anna,  with  quivering 
lip ;  and  her  own  heart  mingled  with  the  soft,  gentle  plead¬ 
ings  of  that  mother’s  voice,  as  she  earnestly  besought  strength 
and  comfort  for  the  sorrowing  one.  Even  in  that  hour  of 
holy  communion  did  the  sweet  incense  of  the  stricken  heart 
ascend  in  blessings  to  Him  who,  in  blighting  her  earthly  hopes, 
had  filled  her  soul  with  heavenly  joy  and  peace. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away,  and  still  Anna’s  step  grew 
more  strong,  her  heart  more  steadfast,  in  its  new  life  of 
faith  ;  and  though  the  cheek  paled,  and  the  mother’s  soul 
yearned  to  clasp  again  its  treasures,  she  yielded  without  a 
murmur  to  her  sad  and  lonely  fate.  To  the  parsonage,  ever 
the  home  of  holy,  happy  thoughts,  and  to  Bessie,  whose  gen¬ 
tle  ministrations  and  unceasing  tenderness  had  won  her  spirit 
back  to  life,  did  she  daily  turn  for  sweet  counsel  and  sympa¬ 
thy.  Life  with  her  was  now  but  a  dreary  journey,  to  whose 
end  she  looked  forward  with  hope  and  trust. 

“  What  can  have  become  of  Robert  ?  ”  said  Mrs.  Clayton, 
one  day,  to  her  husband ;  “  it  is  three  months  since  we  last 


136 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


heard  from  him,  and  he  was  to  write  immediately  after  he  got 
to  France,” 

“  I  have  had  many  misgivings  about  him  lately,  I  confess,” 

' 

he  replied.  “  Having  been  so  terribly  deceived  myself,  I  can 
have  but  little  faith  in  those  with  whom  he  has  to  deal.” 

“  He  was  so  hopeful  in  his  last  letter,  I  was  almost  tempted 
to  show  it  to  Anna,  but  thought  I  would  wait  till  I  heard 
again.” 

“It  was  well  you  did  so,”  said  the  squire;  “for,  after  all," 
my  hopes  of  his  success  are  very  faint.” 

“  Father,”  said  Anna,  entering  the  room  in  great  agitation, 
and  handing  him  an  open  paper,  “  read  that !  ” 

“  What  is  it  ?  what  has  happened,  my  child  ?  ”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Clayton,  whose  thoughts  were  at  once  with  Robert.  Her 
husband  read  aloud  the  paragraph  to  which  Anna  had 
pointed. 

“  We  regret  to  announce  the  death,  on  the  7th  ult.,  of  Sir 
Charles  Duncan,  only  child  of  the  late  Sir  William,  whose 
sudden  and  untimely  end  has  caused  a  deep  sensation  in 
many  circles.  Especially  to  the  noble  family  with  whom  he 
was  soon  to  be  united  by  marriage  would  we  tender  our 
warmest  sympathy.  That  one  so  young,  so  full  of  promise, 
with  a  brilliant  future  before  him,  should  be  thus  suddenly 
cut  down,  is  among  the  mysteries  we  cannot  fathom.  The 
treacherous  wave  whose  wild  dash  stilled  the  throbbings  of  that 
heart  unfolds  none  of  its  secrets,  and  we  are  left  to  wonder 
in  silence  at  its  dark  deed.  We  learn  that,  as  Sir  Charles 
has  left  no  will,  his  immense  property  will  pass  into  the  hands 
of  strangers  on  the  decease  of  Sir  William’s  widow.” 

For  a  moment  no  sound  broke  the  stillness,  as  he  ceased 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


137 


reading.  Anna  had  sunk  into  a  chair,  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands.  She  thought  not  of  the  dishonor  and  shame 
from  which  death  had  saved  her,  nor  of  the  perfidy  of  the 
wretch  who  had  not  been  suffered  to  perfect  his  guilt;  but 
the  hope  which  she  had  almost  unconsciously  cherished,  that 
her  misguided  husband  would,  in  some  repentant  moment, 
restore  the  loved  ones  he  had  torn  from  her,  was  now  suddenly 

destroyed,  and  she  felt  that  they  were  indeed  lost  to  her  for- 

•  , 

ever.  j 

“  My  daughter,”  exclaimed  her  father,  as  if  reading  her 
very  thoughts,  “  we  will  trust  in  the  Lord,  that  he  has  gracious 
purposes  to  perform.  We  who  have  been  brought,  through 
these  bitter  trials,  to  taste  his  love,  —  can  we  not  trust  in 
that  love  now  ?  ” 

Anna’s  faith  brightly  shone  through  those  tears,  as  with 
uplifted  eyes  and  hands  she  muYmured,  “  Even  so,  Father,  for 
so  it  seemeth  good  in  thy  sight.”  Simple,  sweet,  yet  earnest 
trust,  wafted  by  the  breath  of  angels  to  its  source,  it  will  yet 
return  to  fill  that  life  with  bliss  !  - 

The  postman’s  loud  knock,  resounding  through  the  quiet 
house,  caused  each  to  start,  and  Mrs.  Clayton  hastened  to 
receive  from  his  hands  the  long-expected  letter.  Anna  gazed 
with  surprise  at  the  eagerness  with  which  her  mother,  after 
scanning  the  foreign  stamp,  broke  the  seal,  and  sat  down  ab¬ 
sorbed  in  its  contents.  She  turned  to  her  father,  but  he,  too, 
was  watching  with  interest  the  face  of  his  wife,  to  gather 
from  it,  if  possible,  some  hope.  Suddenly  it  flashed  into  her 
mind  that  it  might  be  connected  with  the  lost  ones,  and  the 
blood  leaped  wildly  about  her  heart  as  she  sprang  to  her 
12* 


138 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


mother’s  side  and  grasped  the  letter,  exclaiming,  breathlessly, 
“  Tell  me,  is  it  about  thevi?  ” 

The  mild  gray  eyes  beamed  sorrowfully  upon  her,  as  Mrs. 
Clayton  quietly  replied, 

“  I  have  thoughtlessly  betrayed  what  it  were  best,  perhaps, 
you  should  not  know.  —  It  may  be  better  now  to  tell  her  all,” 
added  she,  turning  to  her  husband. 

“  I  think  so,”  he  replied. 

“  Are  they  dead  ?  ”  whispered  Anna,  in  a  tone  half  fearful, 
half  hopeful,  as  though  death  might  be  preferable  to  their 
little,  joyless  lives  away  from  her. 

“No,  not  dead,”  Mrs.  Clayton  answered;  -“but  here 
comes  Bessie,  —  she  can  tell  you  better  than  I.” 

The  quiet,  pleasant  smile  with  which  Bessie  greeted  her, 
reassured  Anna,  and  she  felt  her  spirit  grow  calm  and  strong 
beneath  that  loving  glance. 

“  Now,  Bessie,”  said  she,  “  I  must  hear  all  that  you  have 
been  concealing  from  me.  Why  have  I  not  shared  your  con¬ 
fidence  ?  ”  asked  she,  half  reproachfully. 

“  Simply,  dear  Anna,  because  we  feared  you  had  not 
strength  to  bear  such  suspense,  which  might  end  in  disap¬ 
pointment.”  e  . 

“As  it  has,”  sighed  Mrs.  Clayton. 

Bessie  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  —  “Co  on,”  said  she; 
“  and  when  you  have  told  all,  I  will  read  you  the  letter  I  just 
received.” 

“Well,”  said  Bessie,  taking  one  of  Anna’s  small,  white 
hands  within  her  own,  “I  know  not  whether  your  heart, 
dear  Anna,  felt  its  influence,  but  in  the  wildest  hour  of  your 
delirium,  when  hope  seemed  faintest,  one  came,  strong  in 


% 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


139 


I 


heart  and  purpose,  to  redeem  you  —  dear  to  him  as  a  sister 
—  from  the  life-long  misery  which  had  fallen  upon  you.  In 
your  weakest  moments,  it  was  his  arm  that  sustained  you,  — 
his  spirit  that  breathed  the  happy  scenes  of  youth  into  your 
ear,  waking  recollections  which  brought  back  the  wandering 
mind.  Ilis  voice  alone,  as  in  low  and  fervent  tones  it  uttered 
for  you  the  agonizing  prayer,  would  calm  your  soul  to  rest. 
But  when  returning  reason  gave  hope  of  your  restoration,  he 
left  you  to  our  willing,  loving  hearts,  and  went  forth  to  trace, 
and  if  possible  restore,  those  precious  children  to  you.” 

The  head  which  had  sunk  upon  Bessie’s  shoulder  was  now 
raised  in  earnest  expectation.  “  Has  he  —  has  Robert  found 
them  ?  ”  she  exclaimed.  “  O,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  this 
before  ?  ”  ' 

“  No,  dear,  he  has  not  found  them,  and  the  fear  that  you 
might  hope  too  much  from  his  efforts  has  kept  us  silent.” 

“  But  Robert  will  save  them !  ”  said  she,  with  energy. 

0,  how  strong  is  the  faith  of  a  loving  woman’s  heart !  Anna 
had  loved  Robert  Graham,  and,  though  years  ago  she  crushed 
that  feeling,  and  subdued  her  love,  her  perfect  trust  in  him 
had  never,  for  a  moment,  wavered. 

“  Robert  will  doubtless  use  every  possible  means  to  dis¬ 
cover  them,”  replied  Bessie  ;  “  but  they  are  in  the  power  of 
men  who  would  not  easily  yield  the  prize  they  had  taken  such 
pains  to  secure.” 

“  Robert  had  traced  them,  as  he  thought,”  added  Mrs. 
Clayton,  “  to  France ;  but,  in  a  letter  the  postman  brought 
this  morning,  he  says  —  ” 

“  Let  me  read  it,  mother,”  cried  Anna,  eagerly,  as  a 
shade  of  disappointment  settled  on  her  face. 


# 


140 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Come,”  said  Bessie,  “  you  must  remember  I  have  not 
heard  a  word  you  have  been  reading,  and  am  all  anxiety  to 
know  what  llobert  says.” 

“  Perhaps  you  will  read  it  aloud  yourself,  Bessie,”  Mrs. 
Clayton  replied  ;  “  I  had  scarcely  finished  it  when  you  came 
in,  and  Mr.  Clayton  has  not  yet  seen  the  letter.” 

“I  have  been  so  anxiously  watching  Anna,”  said  her 
father.  “  Does  my  daughter  suffer  one  doubt  to  darken  her 
mind  ?  ”  he  asked,  looking  into  her  troubled  face. 

t  r 

“  No,  father,  I  know  it  is  all  right,  but  —  0,  my  children  !  ” 
and  nature  would  speak  through  the  mother’s  tears. 

Bessie  took  up  the  letter,  and,  hastily  wiping  her  own  eyes, 
began  to  read : 

“  I  had  hoped,  ere  this,  to  return  to  you  in  the  joyful 
accomplishment  of  my  mission ;  but  I  have  been  to  France 
only  to  find  myself  the  victim  either  of  treachery,  or  ill  luck. 
As  I  wrote  you  last,  I  received  minute  directions  from  those 

-V  1  t 

who  professed  to  know,  to  the  convent  where  the  dear  little 
ones  had  been  carried  and  placed  in  charge  of  its  abbess. 
You  may  well  imagine  I  lost  no  "time  in  following  these  direc¬ 
tions  ;  and,  sooner  than  I  had  thought  it  possible,  the  dark 
walls  of  St.  Barbara  were  before  me.  Everything  about  the 
convent  corresponded  so  exactly  with  the  notes  given  me,  that 
my  heart  beat  high  with  expectation  as  I  entered  its  gloomy 
portals,  and  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  lady  superior.  My 
strength  and  ccurage  well-nigh  fled,  as  she  informed  me,  in 
answer  to  my  inquiries,  that  only  three  days  before,  the  chil¬ 
dren  had  been  transferred  to  England,  in  obedience  to  Sir 
Charles’  commands.  She  appeared  to  sympathize  warmly  in 
my  disappointment,  and  wept  as  I  told  her  of  the  sufferings 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


141 


of  their  mother.  With  the  greatest  courtesy  she  entertained 
me,  and  solemnly  pronounced  over  me  her  ‘Benedicite  ’  as  I  left 
her,  to  retrace  my  steps  to  England.  I  go  back  to  Sir  Charles, 
and,  if  necessary,  shall  take  legal  measures  to  expose  him, 
and  force  the  children  from  his  unnatural  protection.  God 
helping  me,  I  will  never  cease  my  efforts  while  there  is  any 
hope  of  saving  them.”  > 

Bessie  ceased  reading,  with  a  trembling  voice,  for  even  her 
sanguine  nature  felt  the  greatest  uncertainty  of  his  success. 
Mrs.  Clayton  was  the  first  to  speak. 

“  Now  that  Charles  is  removed,  Bobert  may  find  less  diffi¬ 
culty  than  he  expects.” 

“  I  don’t  know  about  that,  wife,”  said  her  husband,  shaking 
his  head ;  “  this  whole  affair  has  been  conducted  with  more 
shrewdness  and  calculation  than  Charles  ever  possessed. 
There  must  have  been  some  powerful  motive  for  the  commis¬ 
sion  of  such  a  deed,  and  his  death  may  only  conceal  it  more 
effectually.” 

“  Of  whose  death  are  you  speaking  ?  ”  asked  Bessie,  in 
surprise. .  - 

“  I  had  forgotten  that  you  were  not  in  when  I  read  that,” 
said  the  squire,  as  he  gave  her  the  paper. 

What  was  there  in  that  solemn  announcement  that  caused 
Bessie’s  heart  to  glow  with  something  akin  to  pleasure  ?  Was 
it  not  that,  with  woman’s  quick  instinct,  she  saw  afar  off  a 
light  in  the  dark  pathway  of  the  afflicted  one,  —  a  light 
whose  radiance,  though  it  could  not  dispel,  would  alleviate 
the  bitterness  of  her  life?  Whatever  were  her  thoughts,  hope 
again  smiled  through  her  tears,  as  she  clasped  Anna’s  hand. 

“  All  will  come  out  right  at  last,  dear  Anna  ;  only  let  your 
faith  be  unshaken,  and  your  heart  rest  in  trustful  peace.” 


CHAPTER.  XV. 

“  My  heart  is  firm  :  • 

There ’s  naught  within  the  compass  of  humanity 
But  I  would  dare  to  do.” 

Hunt’s  “Julian.” 

Robert  Graham  paced  with  impatient  step  the  deck  of  the 
noble  ship  which  was  fast  conveying  him  back  to  England. 
For  hours  had  he  kept  his  unbroken  tread,  dwelling  moodily 
upon  his  disappointed  hopes  and  the  vague  uncertainty  before 
him ;  for,  though  he  had  written  hopefully  to  the  anxious  ones 
at  home,  his  own  heart  misgave  him  as  to  his  final  success. 
True,  his  lip  curled  with  contempt  for  the  miserable  being 
with  whom  he  must  contend ;  but,  after  all,  might  not  Sir 
Charles’  position  and  wealth  give  him  an  influence  which  it 
would  be  difficult  for  him  alone  to  contravene?  As  this 
thought  pressed  upon  him,  he  threw  himself  into  a  seat,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

“  Thee  seems  to  be  in  trouble,  friend,”  said  a  low  voice 
near  him,  while  a  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  his  shoulder ; 
“  is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  thee  ?  ” 

Robert  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  met  the  mild  but 
earnest  gaze  of  one  whose  benevolent  face,  broad  brim,  and 
drab  coat,  bespoke  his  sect.  “  Perhaps  I  am  intruding,” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


143 


continued  the  latter,  “  but  thy  looks  interest  me,  and  I  would 
fain  be  of  service  to  thee.” 

“  Thank  you !  thank  you !  ”  replied  Robert,  whose  heart 
warmed  in  that  genial  smile;  “but,  so  far  from  being  an 
intrusion,  I  am  really  grateful  that  you  have  broken  up  a 
revery,  which,  to  say  the  least,  was  far  from  being  agree¬ 
able.”  *  » V  ' 

“  This,  surely,  is  not  the  place  for  unhappy  thoughts,”  said 
the  Quaker,  pointing  around  to  the  calm  blue  waters  through 
which  they  were  gliding,  with  islands  of  great  beauty  here 
and  there  lending  enchantment  to  the  scene. 

Robert,  who  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  nature,  gazed 

around  for  a  moment  with  delight,  and,  turning  to  his  com- 

¥ 

panion,  said,  with  a  smile, 

“You  will  scarcely  believe,  I  suppose,  that  among  those 
who  know  me  best  I  am  often  called  an  enthusiast  in  my  love 
of  nature,  while,  for  hours,  I  have  been  passing  through  such 
glorious  scenes  with  stoical  indifference.  How  true  it  is  that 

without  a  mind  at  ease  our  highest  enjoyment  loses  its  zest !  ” 

»  • 

“Verily,  thou  speakest  the  truth,  friend ;  but  thy  clear, 
open  brow  betrays  no  consciousness  of  wrong  that  should 
sadden  thy  life.” 

“  It  would  be  strange,  indeed,  my  dear  sir,  if  I  did  not 
daily  find  cause  for  disquiet  in  my  own  heart ;  but  just  now 
I  am  more  troubled  for  others  than  for  myself.” 

“  Perhaps  it  will  be  impertinent  for  me  to  press  thee 
further,”  said  the  Quaker,  “  but  my  heart  is  strangely  drawn 
towards  thee,  and  thy  confidence  should  be  sacred.” 

Roberta  nature  was  not  one  to  resist  the  kindly  influences 
of  such  a  spirit,  and  ho  replied,  earnestly,  “  I  feel  assured 


144 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


that  confidence  in  you  cannot  be  misplaced ;  and,  as  I  am 
greatly  in  need  of  counsel  and  aid,  I  will  seek  both  from 
you.” 

His  ingenuousness  touched  the  heart  of  the  stranger,  who 
grasped  his  hand,  warmly.  “  Thee  shall  find  that  James  Lee 
knows  how  to  be  a  friend.” 

“  And  Robert  Graham  knows  how  to  be  grateful,”  added 
he,  as  he  led  the  way  to  his  state-room,  where  he  could  con¬ 
verse  more  privately. 

Had  the  whole  world  been  given  him  from  which  to  choose, 
Robert  could  scarcely  have  found  one  more  competent  to 
render  the  assistance  he  needed.  With  a  heart  filled  with  the 
liveliest  sympathy  for  suffering  in  every  form,  deepened  by 
his  own  checkered  life  of  joy  and  sadness,  James  Lee  seemed 
peculiarly  fitted  to  enter  with  all  his  soul  into  Anna’s  sad 
story  and  Robert’s  noble  purposes.  Having  spent  several 
years  abroad  in  accumulating  a  large  fortune,  he  was  no 
stranger  to  the  wiles  of  those  who  seek  to  propagate  their 
church  by  every  means  within  their  power,  and  he  doubted  not 
Sir  Charles  had  been  instigated  in  his  strange  course  by  some 
Popish  ecclesiastic,  for  covert  designs  of  their  own.  His  wise 
suggestions  and  ready  sympathy  cheered  Robert,  while  his 
own  heart  became  deeply  interested  in  the  fate  of  the  little 
orphaned  children.  Perhaps  the  sweet,  though  sad,  remem¬ 
brance  of  a  little  voice  which,  in  earlier  days,  lovingly  lisped 
“  father  ”  in  his  ear,  added  a  deeper  earnestness  to  his  feel¬ 
ings  ;  for  Robert  was  scarcely  more  impatient  to  unravel  the 
mystery  than  was  he.'  Thus  strengthened  in  his  zeal  and 
devotion,  Robert’s  spirits  grew  light  and  joyous,  and  hope 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


145 


once  more  brightened  his  path,  as  they  reached  England,  and 
proceeded  without  delay  to  seek  Sir  Charles. 

“  Nature  has  doffed  her  gay  attire  since  I  left  here,”  said 
Robert,  as  they  rode  leisurely  through  woods  clad  in  autumn’s 
sombre  hues.  * 

“  And  assumed  one  more  befitting  earth,”  added  his  com¬ 
panion,  glancing  at  his  own  dress. 

“  Why,”  asked  Robert,  “  was  a  love  of  the  beautiful  im¬ 
planted  within  us,  if  we  are  not  to  gratify  it  by  any  unneces¬ 
sary  adornments  ?  ” 

“  Thee  should  ask  thyself  that  question,  Robert,”  the 
Quaker  replied.  “  Does  the  natural  pride  of  the  heart  need 
any  stimulus  from  these  poor  bedizened  bodies?  ” 

“  Certainly  not,”  said  Robert,  laughing ;  “  but  nature  seeks, 
in  its  infinite  variety  of  gorgeous  colors,  to  captivate  our  senses; 
and  why  should  not  we  endeavor  to  make  ourselves  as  attract¬ 
ive  as  possible?  ” 

“  Simply,  friend  Robert,  because  we  do  it  for  our  own 
glory,  while  nature  points  from  every  tree  and  flower  to  the 
hand  that  formed  its  beauty  and  fashioned  its  perfections.” 

“  Excellent,  my  dear  sir !  ”  exclaimed  Robert.  “  I  am 
almost  tempted  to  don  the  drab  and  beaver,  and  to  turn 
Quaker  myself.” 

“  Perhaps  thee  would  never  have  cause  to  repent  such  a 
course ;  but,”  continued  he,  with  a  smile,  “  a  drab  coat  and 
beaver  hat  is  not  all  that  is  required  to  make  thee  a  Friend.” 

“  Not  if  I  may  judge  from  the  noble  examples  I  have  seen,” 
said  Robert ;  “  but  we  are  drawing  near  Beech  grove,  the 
residence  of  Sir  Charles  Duncan,  and  my  heart  trembles  as  it 
fears  another  disappointment.” 

13 


146 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Thee  must  be  content  to  leave  the  result  with  God,  when 
we  have  done  all  that  He  puts  into  our  hearts  to  do,”  Mr.  Lee 
answered,  though  he  felt  more  anxiety  than  he  was  willing  to 
disclose. 

“  How  silent  and  deserted  everything  appears !  ”  said 
Robert,  as  they  came  in  view  of  the  mansion.  “  Sir  Charles 
must  be  away;  perhaps  to  meet  the  children,  who  could  not 
have  arrived  here  much  sooner  than  we.” 

“  What  dark  object  is  that  moving  so  stealthily  across  the 
garden,  yonder  ?  ”  6sked  Mr.  Lee,  pointing  to  a  figure  crouch¬ 
ing  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge,  and  finally  disappearing 
in  the  opposite  direction. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  said  Robert ;  “  the  whole  place  wears  a 
strange  look  to  me.” 

Death  had  left  his  dread  imprints  around  them,  and  they 
knew  it  not;  why  should  there  not  be  a  look  of  strange¬ 
ness  ? 

“  Can  we  see  Sir  Charles  ?  ”  inquired  Robert  of  the  staid- 
looking  personage  who  answered  their  summons  at  the  door. 

“  Sir  Charles  was  buried  yesterday  week,”  was  the  reply, 
in  a  tone  as  quiet  as  though  nothing  unusual  had  occurred. 

“  Buried !  Sir  Charles  dead !  ”  they  both  exclaimed,  in 
one  breath. 

“  I  supposed  all  the  country  knew  that,”  was  his  dry 
rejoinder. 

“But  where  are - 1  mean,”  said  Robert,  as  a  gentle 

touch  from  his  friend  recalled  him,  “  where  is  Lady  Duncan, 
his  mother  ?  ” 

“  My  mistress  is  within,” —  in  the  same  cold  tone. 

“  Will  you,  my  good  man,  beg  for  me  a  few  moments’ 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


147 


interview  with  jour  mistress  ?  Tell  her  my  business  is  of  the 
greatest  importance,  both  to  her  and  myself.” 

“  I  will,  sir.” 

“  What  can  1  do  ?  ”  said  llobcrt,  turning  to  his  friend,  as 
the  servant  left  them  to  deliver  his  message. 

“  Go  on, 7  said  he;  “  perhaps  thee  will  find  it  easier  to  deal 
with  this  woman’s  heart  than  with  her  son’s.  But  I  am 
shocked  at  his  death.” 

“  So  am  I.  Strange  that  we  had  not  heard  of  it,  though 
now  I  remember  I  have  not  read  a  paper  for  a  long  time.” 

“  My  mistress  declines  seeing  any  one,”  said  the  servant, 
giving  Robert  a  slip  of  paper.  “  She  says  that  any  business 
you  may  have  with  her  can  be  attended  to  by  the  person 
whose  name  she  has  written  on  that  paper;”  and  he  held  the 
door,  as  though  quite  willing  to  close  it  at  once. 

“  Stop  one  moment,  if  you  please,”  said  Robert;  “  where  is 
this  person  to  be  found  ?  ”  He  started  as  he  glanced  at  the 
name.  “  Is  it  the  priest  I  saw  here  with  Sir  Charles?  ” 

“  He  was  Sir  Charles’  spiritual  adviser,”  answered  the  im¬ 
passive  servant,  “  and  my  mistress  has  chosen  him  to  conduct 
her  affairs.  He  has  but  just  left  the  house ;  is  there  any¬ 
thing  more  ?  ”  he  asked,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  the 
floor. 

“  Yes,  one  thing;  where  does  he  live?  ” 

“  In  a  chateau,  a  few  miles  from  here,  with  our  most  holy 
bishop.” 

“  The  very  same  !  ”  exclaimed  Robert,  as  they  rode  away 
in  the  direction  of  the  chateau.  “  It  was  he  we  saw  under 
the  garden  wall,  and  doubtless  he  noticed  us  too.  I  know 
not  what  to  expect  now.” 


148 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Expect  nothing,  from  such  apostates,  but  lying,  deceitful 
words,”  his  companion  answered,  with  a  bitterness  which 
caused  Robert  to  exclaim, 

“  Why,  Mr.  Lee,  such  words  sound  strangely  from  you, 
though  in  my  heart  I  believe  you  are  right !  ” 

“  Forgive  me,  friend  Robert,  that  I  have,  in  mine  anger, 
so  disgraced  my  peaceable  principles ;  but  I  tell  thee  I  am 
more  disappointed  than  I  care  to  confess.” 

“  And  it  is  all  for  my  sake !  ”  said  Robert,  gratefully. 
“  How  can  I  ever  repay  you? ” 

“  By  teaching  me  to  be  more  discreet  in  my  speech,”  an¬ 
swered  the  Quaker,  laughing. 

“  Do  you  think  this  Bernaldi  would  deceive  us  about  the 
children  ?  ”  asked  Robert,  anxiously. 

“  If  he  has  any  private  ends  to  gain,  doubtless  he  would 
not  hesitate  to  deceive  thee,”  replied  Mr.  Lee ;  “  and,  from  all 
thou  hast  told  me,  I  fear  he  has  already  done  so.” 

“  The  thought  of  treachery  crossed  my  mind  many  times 
while  talking  with  the  abbess  of  St.  Barbara,”  added  Robert ; 
“  but  her  story  seemed  so  plausible,  I  could  not  question  it.” 

“  She  had,  probably,  learned  her  part,”  said  Mr.  Lee. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  natural  than  the  look  of 
surprise  with  which  Bei.iaidi  and  his  reverend  companion 
greeted  Robert,  as  he  entered  their  library  and  introduced  his 
friend. 

“  We  thought  you  were  well  on  your  way  to  America, 
before  this  time,”  graciously  remarked  the  bishop.  “  To  what 
happy  circumstance  are  we  indebted  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  again  ?  ” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


149 


“  No  very  agreeable  circumstance,  certainly,  brought  mo 
back  to  these  shores  anl  to  your  dwelling,”  answered  Robert, 
coolly ;  “  I  have  either  been  misled,  or  chances  are  strangely 
against  me.” 

“  Explain  yourself,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Graham.” 

“  An  explanation  is  what  I  seek,”  returned  Robert.  “  I 
have  been,  at  your  bidding,  to  St.  Barbara,  only  to  be  told 
that  the  children  had  been  sent  back  to  England,  by  Sir 
Charles’  order.  Now  —  ” 

“  Is  it  possible  ?  ”  they  both  cried,  interrupting  him.  “  Sent 
back !  It  is  passing  strange,”  continued  Bernaldi,  “  that  Sir 
Charles  should  have  done  this  without  my  knowledge.” 

“But  has  \t  been  done  without  your  knowledge?”  asked 
Robert,  earnestly. 

“  Most  certainly,  my  dear  sir  !  Can  you  doubt  it,  after  all 
the  efforts  I  made  to  discover  for  you  the  retreat  of  his  chil¬ 
dren?” 

“  Friend,”  said  James  Lee,  rising  and  looking  sternly  in 
his  face,  “  wilt  thou  lay  thine  hand  on  this  book,  thy  Catho¬ 
lic  Bible,  and  declare,  upon  its  truth,  that  thou  hast  no  knowl¬ 
edge  of  Charles  Duncan’s  children  ?  ” 

The  blood  mounted  high  in  Bernaldi’s  face,  but  he  restrained 
his  anger,  as  he  replied,  “  Gentlemen  are  generally  ready 
to  take  each  other’s  word  without  sealing  it  with  an  oath  ;  but, 
as  you  seem  to  question  mine,  I  am  ready  to  assure  you,  in 
any  manner  you  choose,  that  I  know  nothing  of  them.  Does 
that  satisfy  you? ” 

“  And  thee  also,  friend  ?  ”  asked  Lee,  turning  to  the  bishop. 

“  I  apprehend  you  are  not  aware  of  my  position,”  he 
haughtily  answered  ;  “  the  church  does  not  allow  those  whom 
13* 


150 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


she  has  placed  high  in  authority  to  be  amenable  to  the 
laity.” 

“  I  asked  but  a  simple  question,  friend,”  persisted  Lee ; 
“will  not  thy  church  suffer  thee  to  say  yea  or  nay?” 

“  Let  it  be  nay,  then,  to  save  further  words,”  replied  he. 

“Now,  Robert,”  said  his  friend,  “thy  course  seems  to  be 
plainly  marked.  If  these  good  people  cannot  assist  thee,  the 
law  must.” 

“  Of  what  avail  can  the  law  be,  now  that  Sir  Charles  is 
dead  ?  ”  inquired  Bernaldi. 

“  The  law  can  penetrate  into  many  a  secret  place  hidden 
from  our  eyes,”  Lee  answered,  significantly. 

“I  should  be  as  rejoiced  as  yourselves,”  said  Bernaldi, 
without  appearing  to  notice  his  meaning,  “  if  these  little  ones 
can  be  found,  either  with  or  without  the  help  of  law ;  and  I 
promise  you  my  heartiest  sympathy  and  assistance.” 

“Would  not  Lady  Duncan  know  something  of  them?” 
asked  Robert.  ^ 

“  She  does  not  even  know  of  their  existence,”  replied  the 
priest ;  “we  thought  it  best  not  to  inform  her.” 

“  But  she  will  have  to  know  it,  in  the  division  of  Sir 
Charles’  property,”  said  Robert. 

A  peculiar  smile  flitted  over  the  priest’s  face.  —  “I  don’t 
know,”  said  he,  “  that  it  will  be  necessary ;  unless  their  legit¬ 
imacy  is  proved ,  they  can  have  no  title  to  any  of  his  prop¬ 
erty.”  ^ 

“  What  can  you  mean  ?  ”  cried  Robert.  “  You  surely  do  not 
question  the  legality  of  Sir  Charles’  marriage  !  ” 

“  And  if  /do  not,”  warily  replied  Bernaldi,  “others  may, 
and  the  proof  must  be  clear.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


151 


A 


Robert’s  heart  sunk  as  he  thought  of  Anna’s  fair  name  being 
traduced  for  such  mercenary  purposes.  The  interview  was 
becoming  too  painful  for  him,  and,  with  an  abrupt,  hasty  adieu, 
he  left  the  chateau,  and  rode  silently  away  by  the  side  of  his 
friend. 


. 


* 


CHAPTEE  XVI. 

“  There  is  a  heaven  yet  to  rest  my  soul  on 
In  midst  of  all  unhappiness,  which  I  look  on 
With  the  same  comfort  as  a  distressed  seaman 
Afar  olf  views  the  coast  he  would  enjoy. 

When  yet  the  seas  do  toss  his  reeling  bark 

’Twixt  hope  and  danger.”  Shirley. 

A  great  change  had  come  over  the  household  of  Squire 
Clayton.  Mercy,  gliding  silently  along  by  the  side  of  sorrow, 
had  gently  distilled  her  heavenly  dew  on  its  bitter  path,  and 
subdued  the  intensity  of  grief.  The  humble,  chastened  spirit 
of  the  father,  so  changed  from  the  shrewd,  calculating  man 
of  the  world  that  he  had  been,  and  the  peaceful  though  sad¬ 
dened  expression  resting  on  Anna’s  still  beautiful  face,  told 
of  more  than  earthly  sympathy  and  support.  None  could 
doubt  the  presence  of  the  divine  Comforter,  as  this  little  group 
daily  knelt  around  the  altar  their  hearts  had  raised,  or  as, 
Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  their  long-neglected  pew  in  the  village 
church  was  filled  with  earnest,  prayerful  hearers. 

From  her  first  knowledge  of  Eobert’s  generous  intentions, 
Anna  had  felt  a  happy  confidence  in  his  success;  but,  as 
months  passed  away  and  no  further  tidings  came  from  him, 
her  hope  grew  faint,  and  but  for  the  heart’s  higher  trust  she 
would  have  sunk  into  deep  despondency.  Now,  however,  new 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


153 


views  of  duty  opened  before  her,  and  with  willing  steps  and 
ready  sympathy  she  sought  to  forget  her  own  sorrow  in 
ministering  to  the  poor  and  afflicted  around  her,  and  espe¬ 
cially  in  leading  them  to  the  same  source  of  consolation  whence 
she  had  drawn  such  full  supplies. 

How  did  the  heart  of  Bessie,  her  ever  dear  sister,  rejoice 
in  the  new  tie  which  thus  bound  them  !  In  her  view  Anna 
had  lacked  but  one  thing  to  perfect  her  lovely  character ; 
and,  though  the  heavenly  light  which  beamed  so  sweetly  from 
her  clear  blue  eye  had  been  kindled  from  the  ashes  of  her 
heart’s  immolation,  Bessie  could  scarcely  regret  a  sacrifice 
which  had  produced  such  glorious  results.  “  Now,  surely,” 
thought  she,  “  Anna’s  fajth  will  have  its  reward,”  as  she  felt, 
in  her  short-sightedness,  that  the  hand  which  smote  should  now 
be  stayed.  But  not  as  our  thoughts  are  the  thoughts  of  Him 
who  seeth  the  end  from  the  beginning,  and  knoweth  of  what 
sore  chastisement  the  heart  hath  need,  ere  it  yields  perfect 
obedience  to  his  will.  Not  yet  was  the  bitter  cup  to  pass 
from  her ;  not  till  its  deep,  dark  draught  had  pervaded  her 
life,  and  she  had  learned  to  bless  the  hand  which  pressed  it  to 
her  lips. 

Robert  returned,  but  his  eye  had  lost  the  light  of  hope, 
and  his  step  the  firmness  of  confident  success,  with  which  he 
left  Asheville.  He  had  been  disappointed  in  the  desire  of 
his  heart,  and  he,  too,  must  learn  the  lesson  of  submission. 

“  I  cannot  bear,”  he  said  to  Bessie,  whom  he  sought  imme¬ 
diately  on  his  arrival,  —  “I  cannot  bear  to  meet  the  hopeless 
glance  of  her  eye,  when  I  had  thought  to  fill  it  with  such  joy 
and  gladness.  From  you  she  will  better  receive  the  sad  news 
of  my  futile  though  earnest  endeavors  to  discover  her  lost 


154 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


treasures.  Bear  with  you  the  sympathies  and  prayers  of  one 
who  would  fain  have  brought  her  more  material  comfort,  but 
that  joy  was  denied  him.” 

“  But,  surely,  Mr.  Graham,  you  will  see  Anna,  and  allow 
her  to  express  the  gratitude  she  feels  for  your  great  kindness. 
Her  disappointment  will  not  be  so  great  as  you  imagine,  for, 
since  your  last  letter,  she  has  had  but  little  hope  of  your 
success.  She  would  wish,  I  know,  to  learn  the  whole  truth 
from  your  lips.” 

“  Perhaps  it  will  be  best,”  said  he,  after  a  moment’s 
thoughtfulness,  “  but  I  would  have  gladly  spared  myself  this 
trial.” 

Bessie  did  not  exactly  understand  his  meaning,  but  she 
saw  that  emotion  too  deep  for  utterance  was  agitating  his 
whole  frame.  To  divert  him  from  this,  she  told  him  of  the 
great  change  in  Anna  since  he  last  saw  her  —  the  sweetness 
with  which  she  had  borne  her  affliction,  and  her  own  confi¬ 
dence  that  Anna’s  faith  would  triumph  over  whatever  disap- 
✓ 

pointments  awaited  her. 

He  listened  in  silence.  One  question  he  would  ask,  but 
dared  not.  Bessie  seemed  to  divine  his  thoughts  just  then, 
for  she  added,  “  Anna  has  often  spoken  of  you  as  a  dear 
brother ;  —  indeed,  she  could  hardly  be  more  attached  to  you 
if  you  were  really  so.” 

“  Enough  !  ”  thought  he ;  “a  sister’s  affection  is  all  she  has 
left  to  bestow  on  me.  Why  did  I  hope  for  more  ?  Henceforth 
this  heart  must  learn  to  feel  only  fraternal  affection  for  its 
long-cherished  idol.” 

“  But  you  were  telling  me,  just  now,”  said  Bessie,  who 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


155 


felt  uncomfortable,  she  knew  not  why,  “  of  your  friend.  Why 
did  he  not  return  with  you  ?  ” 

“  Mr.  Lee  has  some  business  affairs  which  require  his  pres¬ 
ence  in  Philadelphia.  He  will  soon,  however,  join  me  here ; 
for  he  has  become  deeply  interested  in  Anna  by  his  generous 
and  unselfish  labors  for  her,  and  well  does  he  deserve  hei 
thanks.” 

“  How  noble,”  thought  Bessie,  “  is  Robert  Graham  !  ever 
awarding  praise  to  others,  and  receiving  none  himself.” 

Could  she  at  that  moment  have  looked  into  the  heart  she 
was  extolling,  how  would  she  have  been  startled  by  its  bitter 
upbraidings,  that  for  years  it  had  toiled  on,  not  unselfishly, 
but  with  an  almost  undefined  hope  of  reward  at  last,  —  reward 
which  might  well  repay  a  thousand  times  more  labor ;  and  yet 
friends  had  called  it  a  noble  sacrifice  !  How  did  Robert  con¬ 
demn  himself,  as  he  walked  slowly  homeward,  that  he  had, 
even  unconsciously,  acted  a  false  part ;  that,  while  to  others 
he  had  seemed  the  very  embodiment  of  disinterested  noble¬ 
ness,  his  own  heart  had  unceasingly  plead  for  a  boon  richer 
than  his  whole  life’s  service  could  merit !  “  Henceforth,”  said 
he,  to  himself,  “  I  will  prove  myself  worthy  of  such  a  sister, 
A  brother  will  I  be  to  her,  and  never  shall  she  know  the 
deep,  unchanging  love  that  lies  buried  within  this  heart.” 

Anna  wandered  restlessly  about  the  house  all  the  morning. 
An  unusual  depression  had  fallen  upon  her  spirits,  which  she 
vainly  tried  to  dispel.  The  rooms  had  never  seemed  more 
silent  and  deserted,  and  the  echoes  of  little  pratling  voices 
were  startlingly  clear  in  her  imagination.  The  mother's  heart 
is  struggling  with  its  intense  yearnings  for  the  lost  ones. 


156 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Never,  in  her  youthful  days,  with  the  rich  glow  of  health  on 
her  cheek,  and  sparkling  in  her  eye,  had  she  looked  so  lovely 
as  now,  when,  in  her  abstraction,  she  sank  upon  a  lounge,  with 
her  head  resting  heavily  upon  her  hand,  and  her  thoughts 
stretching  far,  far  away,  to  the  imagined  resting-place  of  the 
little  wanderers.  Her  simple  mourning  dress,  while  it  cast  an 
air  of  sadness  about  her,  made  more  strikingly  visible  the 
transparent  whiteness  of  her  face  and  neck  ;  and,  as  she  sat 
there,  lost  in  deep  revery,  she  seemed  more  like  a  beautiful 
Parian  statue,  draped  in  sable  garments,  than  a  being  of  life 
and  feeling.  .  . 

The  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  the  click  of  the  gate, 
and  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  door,  were  alike  unheeded 
by  her,  whose  senses  were  locked  within  the  secret  chambers 
of  the  soul.  Now,  however,  as  a  well-remembered  voice  pro¬ 
nounced  her  name,  the  spirit  returned  from  its  weary  flight, 
and  she  sprang  eagerly  forward,  with  a  welcome  on  her  lips. 

“  Anna,  my  dear  sister  !  ” 

“  0,  Robert,  have  you  come  at  last !  ” 

What  a  world  of  agonized  meaning  dwelt  in  her  eye,  as 
she  raised  it  in  mute  appeal  to  his  own  !  The  strong  man’s 
heart  quailed  beneath  that  searching  glance ;  but  his  voice 
was  calm,  as  he  replied, 

“  Anna,  I  grieve  to  come  to  you  thus  —  alone  l  But  will 
not  the  same  faith  which  has  so  strengthened  you  in  your 
hours  of  darkness  now  sustain  you  in  this  disappointment?” 

He  looked  anxiously  towards  her  as  he  ceased  speaking; 
but  for  a  moment  no  sound  escaped  her  lips.  She  felt  then 
how  great  had  been  her  trust  of  late  in  this  arm  of  flesh,  and 
conscience  whispered  that  such  faith  must  ever  end  in  disap- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


157 


pointment.  But  her  heart  returned  at  once  to  its  allegiance, 
as  she  murmured,  earnestly,  “  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I 
trust  in  Ilim  !  ” 

“  Thank  God !  ”  exclaimed  Robert,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
Then,  seating  himself  by  her  side,  he  told  her  all,  —  leaving 
no  room  for  hope  to  allure  her  with  its  false  light,  —  judging 
rightly,  that  thus  would  she  best  be  prepared  to  meet  the  sor¬ 
rowing  life  to  which  she  seemed  inevitably  doomed.  It  was  a 
long,  sad  tale,  to  which  she  listened  in  such  painful  silence ; 
and  though  the  voice,  whose  tones  fell  on  her  ear  like  pleas¬ 
ant  memories  of  the  past,  was  full  of  tender  sympathy,  she 
heeded  naught  save  the  terrible  certainty  that  her  darling 
children  were  lost  to  her  beyond  all  hope.  The  perfidy  of  her 
husband,  and  the  fearful  retribution  which  followed,  however 
it  might  at  another  time  have  affected  her,  now  produced  no 
visible  emotion ;  and  Robert  began  to  think  she  scarce  heard 
his  words,  till,  as  he  closed,  she  exclaimed,  “  Leave  me  for  a 
little  time  alone.  But  come  again  this  afternoon,  my  dear 
brother.” 

Why  did  those  words,  so  plaintively  uttered,  grate  so 
harshly  on  his  ear,  as  he  left  her  presence  ?  A  brother's  love 
was  all  he  claimed  —  why  could  he  not  be  satisfied  ? 

Warm  and  friendly  were  the  greetings  bestowed  on  Robert 
by  Squire  Clayton  and  his  wife,  as  he  entered  their  sitting- 
room  that  afternoon.  And  Anna,  too,  was  there,  with  a 
deeper  shade  of  sadness  on  her  brow.  But  the  eye  which 
met  his  was  calm  and  clear.  Those  hours  of  silent  heart- 
struggles —  none  may  know  their  secrets.  But  the  sweet 
expression  of  resignation  resting  on  her  face  told  the  power 
of  a  faith  which  c#uld  thus  triumph  in  that  mother’s  heart. 
14 


158 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Robert  saw  and  felt  its  influence,  while  he  mentally  resolved 
that  so  bright  an  example  should  not  be  lost  on  him. 

“  Anna  has  told  us  of  your  toils  and  sufferings  for  her 
sake,”  said  Mrs.  Clayton.  “  Our  warmest  thanks  would  fall 
so  far  short  of  the  obligation  we  feel,  that  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  offer  them.” 

“  I  regret  that  you  should  speak  of  it  as  an  obligation 
conferred,”  replied  Robert.  “  What  I  have  done  is  no  more 
than  any  of  you  would  do  under  the  same  circumstances. 
That  I  must  return  unsuccessful,  has  been  the  greatest  grief 
of  my  life  !  ” 

“  If  I  could  only  know,”  said  Anna,  with  a  quivering  lip, 
“  that  they  are  not  in  the  power  of  those  who  would  taint 
their  pure  hearts  with  their  own  false  worship  and  dreadful 
heresy,  it  would  alleviate  a  little  of  this  bitterness  !  ” 

“  This  is  a  case,  my  child,”  replied  her  father,  tenderly, 
“  where  we  must  bring  not  only  ourselves,  but  those  precious 
ones,  and  leave  them  in  the  arms  of  a  Saviour,  who  can  keep 
their  hearts  pure,  and  their  lives  in  safety,  till  he  sees  fit,  if 
ever  in  this  world,  to  restore  them  unharmed  to  us.” 

Robert  listened  in  astonishment ;  for  he  had  not  yet 
learned  how  much  mercy  had  been  mingled  in  their  cup  of 
sorrow. 

“  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  such  sentiments  from  you,  sir,”  he 
said  ;  “  truly,  the  ways  of  God  are  wonderful !  ” 

“  I,  alone,”  replied  the  Squire,  “  have  been  the  means  of 
bringing  all  this  misery  upon  our  house.  I  acknowledge  it 
with  grief,  and,  could  you  know  all  the  agony  I  have  suffered 
in  consequence,  you  might  be  more  disposed  to  pity  than  blame 
me.  But  through  such  fires  the  Lord  has  seen  fit  to  purify 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


159 


my  soul,  and  lead  me  to  himself ;  and  now  my  mouth  must 
ever  be  filled  with  his  praises.” 

Those  were  manly  tears  that  now  gathered  in  Robert’s 
eyes ;  for  he  saw  how  she,  the  beautiful,  the  good  and  pure, 
had  been  made  the  sacrifice  whose  incense  brought  down  such 
blessings. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

“  Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 

Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy  ; 

Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care. 

And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear.” 

Moore. 

Days  and  weeks  fast  glided  into  months,  and  still  Robert 
lingered,  though  his  heart  uttered  its  loud  warnings  that  thus 
was  he  destroying  its  peace.  He  had  loved  Anna  in  years 
past,  when  no  cloud  dimmed  their  vision  of  happiness  as  they 
looked  forward  to  a  joyful  union.  But  when  the  dread  mo¬ 
ment  came  that  severed  them,  and  gave  her  to  another,  not 
at  once  did  his  heart  yield  to  the  stern  decree.  Years  and 
years  it  struggled  with  its  mighty  passion,  till  at  length  higher 
and  holier  strength  was  given  him  to  overcome  all  earthly 
hopes  and  desires.  Had  he  met  Anna  in  the  bright  sunshine 
of  happiness  and  prosperity,  he  might  still  have  remained 
calm  and  unmoved ;  but  the  answering  chord  in  his  own  heart 
vibrated  to  each  note  of  grief  as  it  welled  forth  from  her 
broken  spirit.  If  he  had  loved  the  beautiful  maiden  in  her 
bright  and  joyous  days,  how  did  he  now  revere  the* no  less 
lovely  woman,  against  whom  the  rude  blasts  of  adversity  had 
pitilessly  stormed,  and  who  had  come  forth  from  its  ruins 
purified,  and,  in  his  estimation,  glorified  l  And  yet,  in  all 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


161 


these  weeks  and  months  of  daily  intercourse,  Robert  kept 
his  heart  so  strictly  guarded,  that  not  a  word  of  love  escaped 
his  lips,  and  Anna  suspected  not  its  hidden  secret.  Strange 
to  say,  his  own  affairs  had  never  been  alluded  to  by  either  of 
them;  and  she,  therefore,  still  remained  undeceived  with 
regard  to  his  marriage.  Whenever  she  attempted  to  speak  to 
him  of  his  home  and  his  return  thither,  which  she  felt  could 
not  be  much  longer  delayed,  her  heart  silenced  the  words  ere 
they  reached  her  lips.  Why,  she  could  not  tell ;  but  she 
shrank  from  reminding  him  of  dearer  ties  than  those  which 
prompted  him  to  remain  and  comfort  her.  To  her  he  was  the 
devoted  brother,  whose  absence  would  create  such  a  painful 
void  in  her  heart,  that  she  could  not  for  a  moment  contemplate 
it  with  calmness. 

Let  us  leave  her,  for  a  time,  to  solve  the  enigma  as  best 
she  may,  while  we  look  into  the  cheerful  parsonage,  —  the 
home  of  such  pure,  unalloyed  happiness.  A  new  inmate  — 
one,  too,  who  seems  quite  at  home — greets  us  as  we  enter  its 
ever-pleasant  sitting-room.  James  Lee  —  for  he  it  is  —  had 
followed  Robert  to  Asheville,  to  see  one  in  whose  fate  he  had, 
from  the  first,  felt  such  a  deep  interest.  A  double  motive 
actuated  his  desire  to  see  her;  for,  with  his  usual  quiet 
shrewdness,  he  had  penetrated  the  secret  which  Robert 
thought  so  safely  locked  in  his  own  breast,  and,  in  his  warm 
and  increasing  friendship  for  one  so  noble,  he  watched  with  no 
little  anxiety  for  the  denouement  in  such  a  heart’s  his¬ 
tory.  He  found  in  Bessie,  the  pastor’s  lovely  wife,  the 
warmest  sympathy,  both  in  his  partiality  for  Robert  and  his 
intense  interest  and  admiration  of  Anna.  Without  relatives, 
with  no  one  spot  that  he  might  call  home,  James  Lee  had 

14# 


162 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


been  for  years  a  wanderer.  Some,  who  knew  him  in  his 
youth,  spoke  of  disappointment  and  affliction  ;  but  none  knew 
the  secret  sorrow  which  sent  him  forth  to  spend  among  strang¬ 
ers  the  best  years  of  his  life.  Wealth  had  lavished  its 
treasures  upon  him,  and  he  was  returning  once  more  to  his 
native  land,  when  he  met  Robert,  as  we  have  seen,  and  his 
lonely  heart  was  at  once  drawn  towards  him,  and  entered  with 
zeal  into  his  plans.  With  the  world  before  him  where  to  choose, 
he  yielded  alike  to  his  own  inclination  and  Robert’s  entrea¬ 
ties,  and  Asheville  became  his  home,  for  the  present,  at  least. 

In  the  parsonage  —  where  he  was  received  as  a  member  of  ^ 
its  happy  circle  —  he  found  that  congeniality  which  his  heart 
had  so  long  desired ;  and  in  a  few  months  he  felt  more  at 
home  than  he  had  ever  supposed  it  possible  for  him  to  be 
again. 

“  Mr.  Lee,”  said  Bessie,  one  day,  “  what  say  you  to  a  ride 

with  us  to  B - ,  my  native  place?  My  husband  has  a 

little  leisure,  and) proposes  to  spend  to-morrow  in  rambling 
over  scenes  so  pleasantly  familiar  to  us  both.” 

“I  will  gladly  go  with  thee,”  replied  he;  “friend  Her¬ 
bert  shall  show  me  the  mine  where  he  found  his  treasure.” 

“  Who  knows  but  there  may  yet  be  some  treasure  reserved 
for  you  in  that  mine?”  returned  she,  laughing.  But  she  in¬ 
stantly  regretted  that  she  had  thus  spoken,  for  his  brow  grew 
sad,  as  he  replied, 

“  When  the  grave  shall  yield  back  its  treasures,  then  may 
I  claim  mine,  but  not  before.” 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  alluded  to  himself;  and  tears 
gathered  in  Bessie’s  eyes  as  she  thought  what  sad  memories 
the  past  might  have  garnered  for  him. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


163 


“  Some  time,”  said  he,  noticing  her  emotion,  “  you  shall 
hear  my  story  ;  but  not  now.  We  must  carry  none  but  cheer¬ 
ful  faces  among-your  friends.” 

Bessie’s  heart  throbbed  gratefully  at  the  warm  and  earnest 
welcome  which  everywhere  greeted  her  from  those  who  loved 
her  for  her  father’s  sake,  as  well  as  her  own.  How  lovingly 
her  eye  rested  on  the  dear  old  manse,  the  quiet  nook  in  the 
garden,  and  all  the  familiar  scenes  of  her  childhood!  But  to 
the  church-yard,  that  sacred  spot  where,  reposing  in  his 
last,  long,  quiet  sleep,  lay  the  form  that  her  childish  heart  had 
ever  idolized,  —  to  that  dear  grave,  watered  by  so  many  tears, 
she  paid  her  last  tribute,  that  from  thence  she  might  carry  to 
her  home  its  holy  influences.  Long  they  lingered  around  that 
spot,  for  Bessie  had  glowingly  described  to  her  willing  lis¬ 
tener  the  happy  exit  of  the  freed  spirit ;  and  Herbert 
Lindsey’s  deep,  subdued  voice  had  breathed  their  hearts’ 
aspirations,  while  James  Lee’s  form  still  bent  over  that  mound, 
as  in  silent  communings  with  the  dead.  A  low  moan  sighed 
along  the  breeze,  as  it  floated  past  them ;  then  another  and 
another  in  quick  succession  followed,  and  Bessie  turned  hastily 
around  to  see  whence  the  sounds  proceeded.  At  a  little 
distance  from  them,  on  a  newly-made  grave,  knelt  a  beautiful 
girl  of  some  fifteen  summers,  her  hair  in  wild  disorder,  and 
her  whole  appearance  one  of  utter  abandonment  to  the  grief 
which  vented  itself  in  sobs  and  moans.  In  a  moment  Bessie 
was  at  her  side.  With  one  arm  around  her  slight  form,  she  gently 
raised  her  drooping  head,  when  she  exclaimed,  in  surprise, 
“  Why,  Nelly  !  Gan  this  be  you  —  the  bright,  joyous  little 
girl  that  danced  so  gayly  among  the  flowers  —  mourning  in  this 


164 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

sad,  lonely  place  ?  Why  are  you  here,  and  whose  is  this  new 
grave  ?  ” 

The  weeping  girl  pointed  to  some  tablets  near  by,  which  had 
not  yet  been  erected.  “  There,”  said  she,  “  was  the  only 
friend  I  had  in  this 'wide  world !  ’ 

Bessie  looked  still  more  perplexed  as  she  read  the  inscrip¬ 
tion,  “  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Miss  Nancy  Ellis.”  Nelly 
saw  the  look,  and  replied  : 

“  The  very  day  you  were  married,  Miss  Bes - ,  I  mean 

Mrs.  Lindsey,  I  did  something,  in  my  childish  thoughtlessness, 
which  made  her  very  angry ;  and  the  next  day,  when  I  went 
to  her  to  tell  her  how  sorry  I  was  that  I  had  been  so  wicked, 
I  found  her  crying  very  hard,  and  she  said  that  she  had  lain 
all  night  thinking  what  a  disagreeable  person  she  must  be  to 
make  everybody  dislike  her  so,  and  how  lonely  and  friendless 
she  felt ;  and  then  she  asked  me  if  I  would  not  come  and  live 
with  her,  and  try  to  love  her,  and  she  would  be  a  mother  to 
me.  Well  has  she  kept  her  promise,  Mrs.  Lindsey,  to  the 
poor  orphan-pauper ;  but  now  she  is  laid  here,  and  I  am  again 
alone  !  ”  Here  her  fast-flowing  tears  choked  her  further  utter¬ 
ance. 

“  But  have  you  no  friends,  —  I  mean,  no  relatives  ?  ”  asked 
Bessie,  as  she  gently  pressed  the  poor  girl’s  hand. 

“  None  in  the  world,  that  I  know  pf,”  replied  she.  “  I  have 
no  remembrance  of  any  other  home  than  the  poor-house  from 
which  Miss  Nancy  took  me,  and  to  which  I  must  now  return.” 

“  Not  if  I  can  prevent  it,”  said  Mr.  Lee,  who  had  drawn 
near  them  unobserved,  and  heard  all  that  passed.  “  I,  too,  am 
alone  in  this  world,”  added  he  ;  “  and  would  gladly  bind 
something  to  my  heart  to  love  and  cherish.  Wilt  thou,  dear 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


165 


girl  receive  one  in  the  place  of  her  thou  hast  lost,  who  by 
her  grave  promises  to  thee  a  father’s  care  and  affection  ?  ” 

Nelly  looked  up  earnestly  into  the  kindly-beaming  eye  bent 
upon  her  ;  child  as  she  was  in  thought  and  feeling,  what  she 
read  there  spoke  peace  to  her  heart  and  hopeful  trust,  and 
she  involuntarily  clasped  the  hand  extended  to  her,  while,  with 
charming  naivete,  she  replied, 

“  And  will  you  love  the  poor  orphan  girl  as  though  she 
were  your  own  dear  child  ?  ” 

“Verily  I  will,”  he  answered,  with  deep  emotion,  as  mem¬ 
ory  held  before  his  vision  the  sweet  cherub  image  of  his  own 
lost  one. 

All  this  had  passed  quickly  —  so  quickly  that  Bessie  and 
her  husband  still  stood  in  wondering  astonishment ;  and  yet 
the  newly-adopted  father  and  daughter  felt  that  they  were  no 
longer  strangers  to  each  other.  That  solemn  compact,  so 
simply  made,  though  fraught  with  momentous  results  —  did 
not  the  silent  voices  of  the  sleepers  beneath  whisperingly  echo 
it  along,  till,  as  it  was  registered  above,  one  harp  louder  tuned 
its  song  of  praise  ? 

Bessie  readily  consented  to  receive  Nelly  into  her  own 
home  till  Mr.  Lee  could  make  suitable  provision  for  her  edu¬ 
cation  ;  and  a  cheerful,  happy  group  they  were,  as  they  re¬ 
turned  to  her  hospitable  reof. 

“Now,  Mr.  Lee,”  said  she,  “  what  did  I  tell  you?  haven’t 
you  found  your  treasure  ?  ” 

“  Verily  thou  hast  almost  a  prophet’s  tongue,  Bessie,”  he 
replied,  laughing,  “  if  it  always  serves  thee  as  now.” 

“  See !  ”  she  answered,  pointing  to  the  window ;  “  it  needs 
no  tongue  of  prophecy  to  predict  the  happiness  there  is  in 


166 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


store  for  Robert  Graham,  Look  at  him;  what  has  come 
over  him  ?  ” 

As  she  spoke,  Robert  crossed  the  street,  and,  looking  up, 
his  eye  met  her  inquiring  glance,  when  a  smile,  bright  and 

joyful,  lighted  up  his  face,  and  with  a  quick  step  he  entered 

% 

the  room  where  they  were  sitting.  But,  while  he  is  attempting 
to  answer  all  the  questions  so  rapidly  pressed  upon  him,  let 
us  look  back  a  little,  and  see  what  has  thus  agitated  one 
usually  so  calm. 

For  many  days  past  Robert  had  subjected  himself  to  the 
most  severe  self-scrutiny,  determined  that  no  longer  would  he 
be  blind  to  the  true  state  of  his  heart.  He  had  tried  to  sub¬ 
due  his  deep  passion  into  a  calm,  tranquil,  though  tender  fra¬ 
ternal  affection ;  but  it  was  in  vain,  so  long  as  he  witnessed 
the  increasing  loveliness  of  x\nna’s  character.  He  must  leave 
her,  and  that,  too,  at  once,  lest  he  should  waver  in  his  resolu¬ 
tion  to  claim  no  more  than  a  brother’s  love.  Again  must  he 
go  forth  to  wage  anew  the  war  within  his  own  breast,  but  not, 
as  before,  in  his  own  strength.  Already  he  felt  a  sustaining 
power  within  him  to  meet  even  this  trial,  and,  with  a  calmness 
which  surprised  himself,  he  sought  Anna  that  morning  for  a 
last  interview.  He  found  her  alone,  busily  engaged  with  her 
needle,  but  sad,  as  usual. 

“  Anna,”  said  he,  cheerfully,  “  are  you  not  almost  ashamed 
of  such  a  lazy  brother?  Only  think  how  long  I  have  been 
about  here,  doing  nothing.” 

“  Ho  you  call  it  nothing,”  she  replied,  “  tc  bring  so  much 
sunshine  into  our  hearts  and  home  ?  ” 

“  Indeed,  I  do  not;  I  bless  God,  and  ever  shall,  for  per- 

» 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


167 


mitting  me  to  be  near  you  in  your  distress;  but,  now  that  you 
no  longer  need  me,  I  must  away  to  other  duties.” 

The  work  dropped  from  Anna’s  hand,  and  a  tear  trembled 
in  her  eye  as  she  spoke. 

“  I  will  try  not  to  be  so  selfish,”  she  said  ;  “  but,  0,  how 
lonely  it  will  be  when  you  are  gone  !  ” 

“  Can  I,  then,  add  so  much  to  your  happiness?”  he  asked, 
earnestly. 

“  Most  assuredly,  Robert ;  have  you  not  been  to  me  the 
kindest  of  all  brothers  ? 

Again  his  heart  rebelled ;  but  she  suspected  it  not.  “  Who 
could  or  would  have  done  what  you  have  ?  ”  she  continued, 
artlessly  ;  “  and  then,  too,  from  you  I  have  learned  how  the 
heart  may  yield  up  all  its  treasures  with  a  calm  and  perfect 
trust  in  God.  0,  Robert,  you  have  indeed  nobly  performed 
your  mission,  and  I  will  not  murmur  that  voices  from  your 
own  home  lure  you  back ;  but  will  you  not,  when  there,  some¬ 
times  breathe  a  prayer  for  the  lonely,  childless  one  ?  ” 

Her  tears  fell  fast,  but  they  were  all  unheeded  by  him  who 
sat  at  her  side,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  and  his  soul  in 
wild  commotion.  lie  had  heard  but  one  thing  in  all  she  said ; 
one  idea  only  possessed  him ;  —  what  did  she  mean  by  his 
own  home  ?  Could  she  suppose  there  were  others  dearer  to 
him  than  herself?  What  strange  joy  thrilled  his  breast,  as, 
for  one  moment,  his  heart  pleaded  eagerly  to  be  heard,  that, 
perchance,  it  might  awaken  some  response  to  its  long  years 
of  faithfulness  ;  nor  did  its  throbbings  cease  as  he  answered, 
tremulously,  “  My  prayers,  dear  Anna,  will  ever  be  yours ; 
but  to  what  home  you  would  consign  me,  I  know  not.  I  have 
neither  friends  nor  home  away  from  here.” 


168 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  I  thought,  Robert,”  —  and  her  voice  faltered  a  very  little, 
—  “I  thought  you  were  long  since  married,  and — ” 

“  Thought  I  was  married,  Anna  !  ”  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice 
half-joyful,  half-reproachful ;  “  how  could  you  think  so  ?  ” 
“Where,  then,  did  you  just  now  speak  of  going?”  she 
asked,  evading  his  last  query* 

“Anywhere,  Anna,  so  that  I  may  teach  this  heart  the 
lesson  it  once  learned  —  only  to  forget !  ” 

She  looked  up  inquiringly. 

Hopes,  fears  and  resolutions,  were  alike  forgotten  then,  as 
he  passionately  clasped  her  hand,  exclaiming,  “  Anna,  are  all 
the  dreams  of  our  youth  forgotten?  Hoes  memory  never 
awaken  echoes  from  the  past,  when,  before  these  years  of 
blight  and  sorrow,  we  were  happy  —  0,  so  happy  in  each 
other’s  love!  Forgive  me,  Anna,”  he  continued,  as  she 
gently  withdrew  her  hand  to  hide  her  tearful  face,  “  that  I 
have  thus  unconsciously  betrayed  myself.  I  came  here  with 
a  farewell  upon  my  lips  —  a  farewell  that  you,  perhaps,  would 
approve ;  but  in  these  last  few  moments  hope  has  whispered 
such  a  wild  dream  of  joy  into  my  heart,  that  I  cannot  now 
leave  you,  save  at  your  bidding,  till  all  the  hopes  and  fears 
with  which  I  have  ineffectually  struggled,  and  from  which  I 
cannot  fly,  are  confided  to  you.” 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  watched  earnestly  the  trembling 
hands  which  still  covered  her  face ;  then,  gathering  courage 
from  her  silence,  he  bent  low  his  head  near  her  own,  and  in 
the  same  deep  tones  with  which  he  had  won  her  youthful 
love  did  he  now  breathe  into  her  listening  ear  the  hoarded 
secret  of  years.  He  told  her  all  —  all  that  he  had  suffered 
in  his  wanderings  afar  off,  when  he  had  striven  by  every 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


169 


means  to  banish  her  image  from  his  heart ;  how  that,  in  the 
whirl  of  business,  when  fortune  seemed  but  to  mock  him  with 
her  golden  favors,  or  in  the  midst  of  beauteous  and  high-born 
maidens,  whose  winning  smiles  would  have  warmed  into  life 
hearts  less  stoical  than  his ;  whether  roaming  by  sea  or  land, 
alone,  or  surrounded  by  warm,  friendly  voices,  his  heart  had 
ever  turned,  hopelessly,  indeed,  but  unalterably,  to  her.  And 
when,  in  his  intense  desire  to  witness  her  happiness,  which 
alone,  he  felt,  would  reconcile  him  to  his  fate,  he  sought  again 
his  home,  who  could  picture  his  agony  as  the  first  news  of  that 
dreadful  tragedy  reached  his  ear,  and  he  knew  that  the  hap¬ 
piness,  and  perhaps  life,  of  her  he  loved,  was  crushed,  and 
that,  too,  .by  one  who  should  have  cherished  her  as  a  rare 
gift !  In  his  grief  he  called  upon  Bessie,  and  besought  her  to 
gain  for  him  a  place  —  a  brother’s  place  —  by  the  bedside  of 
the  woe-stricken  mother ;  and,  as  day  after  day  he  listened  to 
her  piteous  ravings,  and  found  that  his  voice  alone  had  power 
to  soothe  her  frenzy,  and  his  was  the  hand  she  unconsciously 
clasped  in  preference  to  all  others,  then  he  felt,  in  all  its 
weight,  the  humiliating  truth  that  not  as  a  brother  did  he  love 
the  wife  of  another.  What  hours  of  anguish  he  endured, 
none  might  know;  but  gradually  a  divine  light  stole  gently  and 
sweetly  within  his  soul,  and  taught  him  a  higher  and  holier 
love.  And  when  he  went  forth  thankful  that  his  fortune 
could  now  be  spent  in  her  service,  no  other  hope  incited  him, 
in  his  ceaseless  efforts,  save  that  he  might  be  permitted  to 
restore  happiness  to  the  desolated  heart.  That  for  a  moment 
a  thrill  of  joy  had  swept  through  his  heart  when  he  knew  she 
was  free,  he  confessed ;  but  he  had  since  been  made  to  feel 
that  the  dark  wave  which  so  mercilessly  engulfed  her  had 
15 


170 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


hid,  with  its  black  crest,  all  the  brightness  of  her  young  life. 
0,  how  earnestly  he  had  prayed  that  this  night  of  sorrow 
might  pass  away  !  but  now  he  must  leave  her  ;  no  longer  will 
he  deceive  her  or  his  own  heart  in  its  passionate  pleadings 
for  a  dearer,  tenderer  tie  than  sister.  He  would  not  have 
thus  betrayed  his  love,  had  not  something  within  whispered 
of  hope  and  joy. 

Thus  did  that  noble  heart,  now  for  the  first  time  in  years 
uttering  its  own  language,  pour  forth  its  hidden  treasures  in 
the  deep  stillness  of  that  hour.  The  agitated  form,  the  trem¬ 
bling  hands,  which  still  concealed  her  face,  and  from  beneath 
yvhich  tear-drops  fell  fast  and  warm,  were  as  yet  her  only 
response  ;  but,  as  he  paused,  and  in  a  voice  of  intense  'emotion 
exclaimed,  “  Speak  to  me,  Anna ;  say  that  you  forgive  me  !  ” 
she  gently  laid  one  trembling  hand  in  his,  and  murmured,  “  0,. 
Robert,  you  have  not  deserved  such  suffering.  If  this  poor, 
worthless  hand  can' repay  you  — ” 

“  Nay,  nay,  Anna,”  cried  he,  interrupting  her,  while  his 
whole  frame  shook  with  agitation ;  “  not  from  gratitude  can  I 
receive  this  priceless  boon.” 

“  From  the  love ,  then,  of  a  heart  which,  though  blighted 
and  withered,  turns  with  its  first  and  only  affection  to  that 
faithful  breast!  ”  —  and  she  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
weeping  in  her  joy. 

How  swiftly  flew  the  hours  of  that  day,  and  what  wonder 
that  Robert’s  step  was  quick,  and  his  heart  light,  as  at  night¬ 
fall  he  entered  the  parsonage,  in  his  unutterable  happiness. 

“  Now  are  my  prayers  answered,”  said  Bessie,  with  suf¬ 
fused  eyes,  as  he  told  her  of  his  great  joy,  while  the  no  less 


ANNA  CLAYTON.  171 

sympathizing  “Friend”  raised  his  hands,  and  feelingly  ex¬ 
claimed, 

“  God  be’  thanked,  friend  Robert,  that  thy  noble,  self-sacri¬ 
ficing  life  is  at  last  rewarded ;  may  the  blessing  thou  so  richly 
deservest  rest  upon  thee  both.” 

Quiet  and  simple  were  the  preparations  for  their  speedy 
marriage ;  for  Robert  insisted,  and  not  without  reason,  that 
there  was  no  occasion  for  delay. 

On  the  bright  and  cloudless  morning  they  had  chosen  for 
their  nuptials  the  bridal  party  silently  assembled  around  the 
altar,  and  while  Herbert  Lindsey’s  deep  voice,  tremulous 
with  unwonted  agitation,  echoed  through  those  sacred  walls, 
the  low-murmured  responses  of  the  marriage  vow  broke  from 
the  lips  of  the  trembling  bride  with  sad  earnestness.  Even 
in  this  hour  of  sacred  joy,  the  mother  could  not  forget  ! 


r 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

»  .  ^  •  > 

“  0,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 

When  first  we  practise  to  deceive  !  ” 

-Scott. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  spacious  garden,  adjoining  the 
chateau  we  have  before  described,  was  an  arbor  of  exquisite 
workmanship ;  a  source  of  unceasing  admiration  to  the  few 
who  were  admitted  within  those  private  walks,  but  who  little 
suspected  its  hidden  purpose.  /  *  * 

The  dense  forest,  whose  grim  heads  nodded  as  they  peered 
over  the  high  enclosure,  seemed  not  more  impenetrable  than 
were  its  mysteries  to  Ralph,  the  new  gardener.  Now,  Ralph, 
like  many  others,  beneath  a  stupid  and  most  forbidding  exte¬ 
rior  possessed  an  active  and  inquiring  mind.  Ignorant  he 
was,  most  certainly,  and  superstitiously  devoted  to  the  wor¬ 
ship  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Perhaps  for  these  very  reasons 
Bernaldi  regarded  him  as  well  fitted  for  his  service ;  and, 
therefore,  he  had,  with  many  instructions  and  warnings,  in¬ 
stalled  him  in  his  new  station,  about  two  weeks  previous  to 
the  time  to  which  we  refer.  Ralph’s  restless,  inquisitive  eyes, 
shaded  by  their  huge,  shaggy  brows,  had  often  watched  with 
no  little  curiosity  the  peculiar  care  with  which  Father  Ber- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


173 


naldi  guarded  the  beautiful  arbor.  Implicitly  believing  in 
the  unlimited  spiritual  power  of  his  confessor,  the  simple 
gardener  began  to  think  that  this  might  be  the  entrance  to 
those  purgatorial  fires  with  which  he  had  been  so  often 
threatened. 

“  I  ’se  bound  to  find  out  suthing  ’bout  it,”  muttered  he,  one 
afternoon,  as  he  hid  himself  among  the  bushes,  where  he  could, 
unobserved,  command  a  view  of  the  entrance;  “  ’cause,  ye 
see,  I  an’t  allers  jest  so  good,  and  maybe  I ’d  get  a  push 
down  there  afore  I  knowed  it.  Catch  this  old  feller  a-stayin’ 
so  nigh  that  hot  place,  I  tell  ye !  ” 

Just  then  his  cogitations  were  cut  short  by  the  appearance 
of  Bernaldi,  who,  gliding  along  the  path  which  led  to  the 
arbor,  looked  cautiously  about  him,  and,  taking  from  his  pocket 
a  key,  opened  the  mysterious  door,  unconscious  that  a  pair  of 
great  rolling  eyes  were  peering  at  him  through  the  bushes. 
Before  he  closed  it,  those  eyes  had  scanned  every  inch  of  the 
simple  structure,  though  in  so  doing  they  had  well-nigh  be¬ 
trayed  themselves.  ‘  , 

After  waiting  a  few  moments  in  silence,  Balph  distinctly 
heard  the  click  of  another  door  as  it  opened  and  shut;  while 
a  confused  mingling  of  voices  and  trampling  of  feet  sounded 
to  his  excited  imagination  like  the  struggling  of  fiends  to 
escape  from  their  confinement.  Not  another  moment  did  he 
lose ;  but,  springing  from  his  place  of  concealment,  he  rushed 
through  the  garden,  and,  overturning  everything  that  came  in 
his  way,  plunged  into  the  kitchen,  in  terrible  agitation. 

“  I  tell  ye  —  I  te-11  ye  —  I  te-e-11  ye,  Judy,”  he  chattered 
through  his  teeth,  while  his  great  sturdy  frame  shook  like  an 

15* 


174 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


aspen-leaf,  ■with  fright,  “  I  te-11  ye,  we  ’re  livin’  in  a  drefful 
dangerous  place.” 

The  portly  cook,  who,  at  his  first  appearance,  had  dropped 
the  dish  in  her  hand,  and  stood,  with  uplifted  arms,  gazing  in 
astonishment  at  such  an  apparition,  exclaimed, 

“  Goodness  gracious,  Ralph,  what  is  the  matter?  ” 

“  O-h,  Judy!  ”  said  he,  turning  round  to  see  that  the  evil 
spirits  were  not  already  at  his  heels,  “  we’  re  on  the  brink  o’ 
pardition,  we  be,  and  afore  ye  knows  it  we  shall  all  be  pitched 
in.  I  he’erd  ’em  jest  now,  the  devils !  ”  and  he  dropped  on 
his  knees,  before  a  rude  crucifix  in  the  corner,  muttering 
prayers  and  telling  beads  with  such  vehemence  that  Judy 
was  overcome  with  his  devotion,  and  kneeled  too,  though 
she  had  n’t  the  most „  remote  idea  what  she  was  praying 
against. 

“  Come,  now,”  said  she,  as  his  excitement  was  somewhat 
abated  by  this  cooling  process,  “  tell  me  what  ’t  was  scared 
you  so  —  there  an’t  no  devils  round  here,  be  they?  ” 

“  I  ’spect  there  is,  and  I  ’se  for  making  tracks  quick,  I  tell 
ye.  Maybe  ye  don’t  know  how  nigh  ye  are  to  purgatory, 
hey,  Judy?  Wal,  now,  I  ’ll  jest  tell  you  ;  ye  ’re  jest  as  fur 
off  as  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and  no  furder.”  Here  Ralph 
brought  down  his  fist  with  such  force  on  the  table  that  poor 
Judy  was  struck  with  terror. 

“  Laws  a  massy,  what  do  you  mean,  Ralph  ?  ”  cried  she ; 
“  a-scaring  a  poor  widder  woman  that  has  n’t  got  nobody  to 
go  to !  ” 

“  Don’t  be  afeared,  Judy ;  I  ’ll  take  care  on  ye,  if  ye  ’ll  only 
git  away  from  here,  quick  as  pos-ser-ble.” 

“  What  would  their  reverences  say  ?  ”  asked  the  cook. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


175 


Ralph’s  courage  visibly  forsook  him  at  this  question ;  for, 
in  his  fright,  he  had  not  thought  of  bishop  or  priest. 

“  Tell  ye  what,  I  don’t  know,”  he  answered ;  “  but,  when 
the  devil ’s  at  your  heels,  what  ye  ’goin’  to  do? ” 

“  What  d'  ye  see,  Ralph,  anyhow?”  asked  Judy,  who  felt 
rather  disposed  to  look  into  the  matter  a  little  before  taking 
such  a  decided  step. 

“  I  seed  enuf,  and  ho’erd  enuf,  to  scare  a  nigger.  In  the 
first  place,  I  seed  his  ruv’rence  go  right  down  into  the  bowels 
o’  the  airth,  and  then  I  he’erd  sick  noises  !  —  0,  lud,  ’t  would 
turn  ye  rite  inter  stone.” 

“  You  don’t,  though  1  where  was  it?  ”  said  Judy,  trembling 
all  over. 

“  Did  n’t  I  tell  ye ’t  was  rite  down  to  the  bottom  o’  that 
garden  —  that  little  house  an’t  rigged  up  so  for  nothin’. 
There ’s  suthin’  ’sterious  ’bout  it,  ye  might  know,  when  his 
ruv’rence  goes  in  there  every  day,  and  sometimes  don’t  come 
out  agin  till  the  next  day.  I ’ve  had  my  ’spicions  afore  now, 
I  tell  ye !  ” 

By  this  time  Judy  had  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  ask 
a  few  more  questions,  which  drew  the’ whole  story  from  Ralph, 
when  an  inkling  of  the  truth  flashed  upon  her  mind.  Stand¬ 
ing  before  him,  her  arms  akimbo,  and  her  little  gray  eyes 
sparkling  with  vexation  and  mirth,  she.  poured  forth  her 
reproaches  in  no  very  measured  strains. 

“  Laws  a  massy!*”  exclaimed  she,  “you  old  fool,  you  dolt, 
you  curmudgeon,  a-comin’  here  to  ’sturb  my  rest,  jest  ’cause 
you  ’spects,  when  there  an’t  nothin’  to  ’spect  for !  Don’t 
you  know,  you  lubber,  that  master  goes  in  there  to  see  the 
children  ?  ” 


176 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Where  ?  what  children  ?  ”  broke  in  Ralph,  rubbing  his 
eyes,  in  amazement. 

“  0,  go  ’long,  ye  greeny !  If  ye  don’t  know  now,  I ’m  good 
mind  not  to  tell  ye.  You’ve  frightened  me  so,  now,  I  shan’t 
sleep  a  wink  to-night.” 

“Wal!”  said  Ralph,  drawing  himself  up,  with  as  much 
dignity  as  he  could,  after  the  storm,  “  ye  can  tell  me  or  not, 
jest  as  ye  please;  but,  if  there  an’t  some  circumboberation 
about  that  little  house,  then  my  name  an’t  Ralph  Riley, 
that ’s  all !  ”  , 

’T  was  astonishing  what  effect  his  eloquence  had  upon  Miss 
Judy;  for,  wiping  the  perspiration  from  her  smooth,  round 
face,  she  sat  down  and  began  at  once  to  tell  him  what  she 
knew  about  it. 

“  A  year  ago  or  thereabouts,”  said  she,  “  a  poor  widder 
woman,  like  me,  only  she  was  aclady.,  sent  for  his  reverence, 
my  master,  ’cause  she  was  a-dyin’,  and -wanted  absolution. 
So,  when  he  went  to  see  her  and  give  her  the  blessed  sacra¬ 
ment,  she  begged  him  to  take  her  two  little  children  and 
bring  ’em  up  for  the  church.  Ye  see  Some  o’  her  wicked 
relations  wanted  to  get  ’em  and  make  heretics  of  ’em,  and  it 
a’most  killed  her  for  fear  they  would.  So,  when  she  died, 
what  does  good  Father  Bernaldi  do,  but  he  fixes  up  as  nice  a 
house  as  ever  you'  seed,  and  puts  ’em  in  there  to  live,  where 
those  wicked  folks  can’t  find  ’em.  There  can’t  nobody  get  at 
’em,,  only  through  the  garden ;  and  that ’s  why  he  keeps  it 
locked  all  the  time.  He ’s  terrible  fond  of  ’em,  and  that ’s 
where  he  goes  when  you  see  him  go  through  that  little  house. 
I  ’spose  you  he’erd  ’em  all  runnin’  and  talkin’  to-day  when  he 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


177 


went  in,  and  that ’s  what  scared  you  so.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  What 
a  fool  you  was !  ” 

Ralph  did  n’t  quite  like  the  conclusion  of  the  matter,  but 
he  was  too  much  interested  to  notice  it ;  so  he  very  mildly 
asked  “  how  old  were  the  children,  and  had  anybody  tried  to 
get  ’em,  and  where  could  the  house  be?” 

“  Tried  !  Laws,  yes'!  A  man  all  whiskered  up,  and  pertendin’ 
to  be  a  gentleman,  was  round  here,  and  then  cum  back,  with 
another  funny-looking  man,  and  they  tried  every  way,  but 
they  could  n’t  get  no  news  of  ’em.  I’d  a  fought  myself  afore 
they’d  a  got  ’em,  the  miserable  heretics!  Little  Charlie  is 
a’most  five  and  Myrtie  two  year  old,  and  sweeter  youngsters 
never  lived.  To  be  sure,  their  house  was  lonesome-like,  but 
’t  was  a  pretty  walk  through  the  woods.  Some  day,  when 
master ’s  willing,  we  ’ll. go  find  see  ’em.” 

Judy  had  grown  fairly  eloquent  as  she  concluded  her  tale, 
and  Ralph  must  be  forgiven  if  he  forgot  his  fright,  the  ar¬ 
bor,  children  and  everything  else,  in  his  profound  admiration 
of  the  being  before  him.  Certain  it  is  that  voices  were  heard 
much  later  than  usual,  that  night,  in  the  housekeeper’s  room, 
and  Ralph  smacked  his  lips  more  than  once,  the  next  day,  in 
a  sort  of  dreamy  remembrance  of  “  joys  that  ‘  he ’d  ’  tasted.” 

The  little  thatched  cottage,  so  lovingly  nestled  in  the  midst 
of  a  green  thicket,  seemed  strangely  isolated  and  lonely. 
Save  a  little  spot,  which  had  been  cleared  around  it,  and 
which  busy  hands  had  made  to  hloOm  with  beauty,  all  was  dark 
and  gloomy  as  the  grave.  Little,  curious,  prying  feet,  had 
often  trod  on  the  verge  of  the  thick  copse  which  surrounded 
it,  and  peered  with  eager  eyes  into  the  mysteries  beyond,  but 


178 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


never  ventured  a  step  further.  Strange  home  for  the  warm, 
expanding  sympathies  of  childhood  to  be  nurtured  in !  and 
yet,  here,  hidden  from  the  agonized  search  of  loving  friends, 
with  none  but  cold  hearts  to  rest  upon,  dwelt  the  mother’s 
treasures.  0,  why  do -not  the  birds,  in  their  free,  joyous 
flight,  bear  over  land  and  sea,  to  one  longing  ear,  the  piteous 
wailings  of  those  little  hearts,  for  “  mampip,,  dear  mamma”? 

It  was  just  one  year,  Bernaldi  remembered,  as,  carefully 
removing  some  clustering  vines,  he  opened  the  secret  door, 
from  which  a  path  wound  circuitously  to  the  lone  cottage, 
and  which,  indeed,  was  the  only  entrance  to  that  spot,  —  it  was 
just  one  year  since  he  had  accomplished  the  most  daring  feat 
he  ever  attempted ;  and  a  smile  of  triumph  lighted  his  dark 
face,  as  he  thought  how  ingeniously  he  had  thwarted  all  search, 
and  how  securely  he  now  held  the  little  defenceless  ones  in 
his  own  grasp.  It  was  no  part  of  his  plan  to  be  repulsive  to 
them,  and  therefore  he  was  far' from  being  displeased  at  the 
shout  of  joy  and  clapping  of  little  hands  with  which  his  ap¬ 
pearance  was  hailed  :  so  instinctively  will  childhood’s  heart 
cling  to  some  object  of  love.  As  usual,  he  had  plenty  of  bon¬ 
bons  which  he  scattered  in  their  path,  with  a  few  words  to 
the  girl  who  accompanied  them,  and  then  he  passed  on  to  the 
cottage. 

Its  few  rooms  were  fitted  up  with  neatness,  taste,  and  even 
elegance;  for  money  had  not  been  sparingly  bestowed,  before 
death  claimed  the  misguided  father  —  and  the  church  had 
weighty  reasons  for  continuing  these  luxuries.  One  room 
alone  remained  untouched;  its  bare  and  comfortless  walls 
and  floor,  with  its  rudely-constructed  altar  and  solemn  cruci¬ 
fix,  had  oft  bore  witness  to  the  austere  devotion  performed 
there. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


179 


At  this  very  hour,  before  that  crucifix  kneeled  the  form 
of  a  woman  habited  in  the  garb  of  a  sister  of  charity.  None 
knew  the  long  hours  she  had  thus  prostrated  herself,  or  wit¬ 
nessed  the  fierce  conflict  raging  within  her  breast.  Remorse 
was  a  strange  guest  there,  and,  as  it  pointed  with  its  long, 
spectral  finger  to  the  records  of  the  past,  or  turned  with  grim 
and  savage  menaces  to  the  future,  her  soul  writhed  in  its 
merciless  torture. 

“  0,  blesse^  Mother  !  ”  she  cried,  “  save  me  from  this  hour, 

%  .  . 

and  with  my  life  will  I  make  reparation  to  those  whom  I 
have  wronged' !_  O,  most  holy  Virgin !  hear  the  vows  which  I 
now  make  to  thee,  ere  my  soul  sinks,  in  its  guilt  —  ” 

A  low,  mocking  laugh  broke  painfully  on  the  stillness  of 
that  moment,  and  caused  dhe  devotee  to  spring  hastily  to  her 
feet,  while  the  indignant  blood  mounted  to  her  temples ;  for 

A  _  »  .  ; 

well  she  knew  the  voice  —  it  had  been  to  her  both  the  light 
and  curse  of  her  life. 

“  What  spot  on  earth  can  ever  be  secure  from  your  intru¬ 
sion  ?  ”  haughtily  demanded  she  of  him  who  had  thus  rudely 
shocked  her  better  feelings. 

“  Softly,  softly,  my  good  Marguerite,”  replied  the  intruder  ; 
“don’t  let  your  hasty  temper  get  the  better  of  your  judgment ! 
I  was  only  laughing  at  the  penance  you  would  inflict  on  your¬ 
self  for  an  imaginary  wrong.  You  are  really  growing  very 
zealous.” 

“  Ay,  scoff  at  me,  and  scorn  me  too,  if  you  will,  for  being 
just  what  you  have  made  me !  0,  Alphonso,  would  to  God 

I  had  never  seen  you !  Then  had  not  these  hands  been  steeped 
in  every  crime.” 

“  Why,  Marguerite !  ”  said  he,  in  a  tone  which  he  well  knew 


/ 


180  ANNA  CLAYTON. 

would  reach,  her  heart,  “  you  are  in  a  strange  mood  to-day ; 
what  has  come  over  you  ?  ” 

“  I  scarcely  know,  myself,”  she  replied  ;  “  but  since  morn¬ 
ing  I  have  had  the  strangest  .feelings !  It  was  just  a  year 
ago  to-day,  you  know,  that  we  took  those  children,  and  all 
day  long  it  has  seemed  to  me  I  could  hear  their  mother’s 
terrible  shrieks.  It  is  foolish,  I  know,  but  I  often  wish  I  had 
never  seen  them.” 

“  Marguerite,  beware !  ”  sternly  uttered  the  priest.  “  These 
wicked  fancies  are  treason  to  the  church,  and  deserve  her 
heaviest  punishment.  Have  you  no  love  for  the  souls  of  the 
dear  children,  that  you  regret  saving  them  from  those  abomi¬ 
nable  heretics  ?  Had  you  never  done  any  other  service,  this 
alone  would  canonize  you;  but  beware  how  you  impiously 
provoke  the  wrath  of  the  bishop,  who,  for  this  very  act,  has 
granted  you  special  indulgences,  and  who  has  the  power  at 
any  moment  to  retract  them,  and  deliver  you  over  to  perdi¬ 
tion.” 

His  words  had  the  desired  effect,  for  her  momentary  repent¬ 
ance  subsided  at  once  into  her  usual  abject  servility,  and  she 
humbly  knelt  at  the  confessional,  giving  evety  thought  and 
feeling  to  the  keeping  of  a  frail  mortal  like  herself.  The 
world  looks  on  and  calls  this  a  “  harmless  infatuation  ;  ”  but 
can  that  be  harmless  which  gives  to  man  the  censorship  of  the 
soul  ? 

Bernaldi’s  suspicions  were  aroused;  he  had  several  times 
before  surprised  Marguerite  in  tears,  but  never  till  this  inter¬ 
view  did  he  imagine  the  cause*  When  he  selected  her  as  a 
fit  accomplice  in  his  cold-blooded  deed  of  child-robbery,  and 
gave  to  her  the  mother’s  task  of  rearing  them,  he  was  not 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


181 


mistaken  in  her  fitness  for  the  work.  She  had  been  too  long 
under  his  tutelage  to  shrink  from  any  crime,  and  her  instinct¬ 
ive  hatred  toward  everything  good  had  been  fully  gratified  in 
the  deathless  misery  she  had  helped  to  bring  upon  one  whose 
only  fault  was  her  goodness.  But  a  year’s  companionship 
with  the  artless  innocence  and  purity  of  childhood  had  softened 
her  nature,  and  awakened  latent  hopes  and  desires,  of  which 
she  was  as  yet  scarcely  conscious.  Thoughts  of  her  own 
bright  and  happy  youth,  till  the  shadow  of  the  deceiver  fell 
on  her  path,  —  the  days  and  years  of  alternate  sin  and  sorrow 
which  darkened  her  life  and  hardened  her  heart,  till  she 
seemed  the  veriest  wretch  on  earth,  —  would  force  themselves 
upon  her  conscience,  as  they  had  done  this  day,  and  lead  her 
to  penances  the  most  revolting,  in  the  vain  hope  that  they 
would  remove  the  plague-spot  from  her  soul ! 

Bernaldi  saw  all  this ;  he  knew,  even  better  than  she  did, 
the  workings  of  her  mind ;  and,  while  he  dared  not  remove  her 
from  the  sweet  childish  influences  which  had  produced  this 
effect,  he  determined  to  watch  her  more  closely,  and  to  bring 
her  oftener  to  confession,  that  so  he  might  use  more  effectu¬ 
ally  the  unbounded  influence  he  had  ever  possessed  over  her, 
to  prevent  any  serious  results. 

“  Come,  Marguerite,”  said  he,  gayly,  “  let ’s  away  with  these 
sad,  gloomy  thoughts,  and  discuss,  over  a  cup  of  your  nice  tea, 
more  cheerful  topics.  You  will  soon  get  over  these  idle 
whims,  and  laugh  at  your  own  folly.  But  where  are  Charlie 
and  Myrtie  ?  Ah !  here  they  come,  the  darling  little  things ! 
How  they  will  learn  to  thank  you,  a  few  years  hence,  for 
bringing  them  into  our  holy  church  !  ” 

“  0,  Margery !  ”  cried  little  Charlie,  bounding  into  the 

16 


182 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


room,  followed  by  his  wee,  toddling  sister,  “  see  what  nice 
things  the  ‘  good  father ’  gave  me  !  Here ’s  some  for  you ;  ” 
and  he  held  out  his  little,  plump  hand  filled  with  sweetmeats, 
while  Myrtie  seated  herself  on  the  floor,  and  began  munching 
hers  as  though  there  was  not  another  person  in  the  world  to 
care  for. 

“You’re  a  generous  little  fellow,- Charlie,  but  Margery 
does  n’t  want  any  now.” 

He  looked  up  wonderingly  in  her  face  at  such  a  refusal, 
and  his  quick  eye  detected  the  traces  of  tears.  Instantly  the 
little  hand  dropped  its  load,  and  he  sprang  into  her  lap  and 
threw  his  arms  about  her  neck. 

“  What  does  poor  Margery  cry  for  ?  Have  you  lost  your 
mamma,  too  ?  ”  asked  he,  tenderly,  ever  connecting  tears  with 
such  a  loss. 

“No,  darling,  ‘  poor  Margery  ’  hasn’t  gotAtny  mamma;  — 
but  you  are  her  little  boy,  and  will  let  her  be  your  mamma, 
won’t  you?  ”  and  she  stroked  his  fair  hair,  lovingly. 

“No,  no,  not  my  mamma !  ”  cried  he,  earnestly,  “  but  my 
dear,  good  Margery.”  ,,  . 

0 

“  And  why  not  your  mamma?”  Bernaldi  asked,  amused  at 
his  earnestness; 

“  Because  —  because,”  said  the  little  fellow,  with  a  per¬ 
plexed  look,  “  I ’ve  got  one  mamma  away  over  the  water,  and 
some  day,  when  I ’m  a  man,  I  shall  go  and  find  her  —  shan’t 
I,  Margery  ?  ” 

“  Perhaps  so,”  replied  she,  trembling  at  Bernaldi’s  darkened 
look. 

“  No,  you  won’t !  ”  said  he,  sharply ;  “  she ’s  a  wicked  woman, 
and  you  must  never  call  her  mamma  again  —  do  you  hear?  ” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


183 


—  and  he  jerked  the  little  arm,  —  “  mind  you  never  say  that 
again,  or  I  shall  put  you  into  a  dark  hole,  and  keep  you  there 
till  you  die  !  ” 

“  Should  I  go-  to  heaven,  then  ?  ”  asked  Charlie,  with  a 
quivering  lip. 

“  You ’d  go  right  to  purgatory,  where  all  wicked  boys  go  !  ” 
said  the  priest,  angrily. 

“  But  if  I  kneeled  down  and  prayed,  just  as  Aunty  Bessie 
used  to,  then  God  would  take  me  to  heaven,  —  would  n’t  he, 
Margery  ?  ” 

“  No,  no,  my  child,”  replied  she;  “you  are  very  wicked  to 
talk  so  !  You  must  pray  just  as  I  teach  you  to.  Here,  kneel 
down  and  ask  the  ‘  good  father  ’  to  forgive  you  for  such  naughty 
words.”  ^  ^  * 

The  little  fellow  did  as  he  was  told.  But  his  childish  heart 

—  » 

throbbed  with  a  sense  of  injustice  and  wrong,  and  drew  more 

closely  within  itself  the  image  of  his  dear,  lost  mamma, — 

0 

that  image  which  time,  with  all  its  changes,  could  never 
efface. 

Child  as  he  was  when  torn  from  his  mother’s  arms,  the 

V 

scene  was  forever  engraved  upon  his  memory,  —  nor  could 
persuasions,  threats  or  diversion,  still  his  incessant  cries  for 
“  mamma”  for  many  a  weary  day,  as  the  vessel  bore  away  its 
precious  load,  widening  the  gulf  between  those  loving  hearts. 
Her  look  of  imploring  agony,  as  she  clutched  the  carriage- 
wheel  in  a  vain  effort  to  stop  its  course,  and  was  brutally 
knocked  away,  reached  that  *child-heart,  never,  never  to  be 
forgotten.  lie  seemed  instinctively  to  know  the  base  part  his 
father  bore  in  that  terrible  transaction  ;  for  he  shunned,  with 
utter  aversion,  every  attempt  to  conciliate  him,  and  clung 


184 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


rather  to  the  stranger  priest  and  his  new  nurse.  His  baby- 
sister,  the  darling  Myrtie,  became  his  great  care ;  and  upon 
her  would  he  lavish  all  the  endearments  with  which  his  little 
heart  was  filled.  Lady  Duncan  he  would  never  call  “  grand¬ 
mamma,”  for  to  him  that  title  belonged  only  to  the  dear  old 
familiar  face  in  his  own  mamma’s  home ;  and  he  was  better 
pleased  with  the  lonely,  quiet  cottage,  and  only  Marguerite 
and  Myrtie  for  company,  than  in  the  rich  halls  of  his  father’s 
house.  So  they  had  but  little  trouble  in  secluding  their 
orphaned  treasures,  while  the  mission  of  these  child-angels 
worked  silently  its  way  into  the  hearts  of  those  about  them. 


L 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

«  • 

“  Foul  whisperings  arc  abroad  ;  and  uiinat’ral  deeds 
Do  breed  unnat’ral  troubles  :  infected  minds 

To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets.” 

• 

“  Leave  her  to  heaven. 

And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 

To  prick  and  sting  her.’'’  Shakspeabe. 

“  Fool  !  ”  muttered  Bernaldi  to  himself,  as  he  retraced  his 
steps  to  the  chateau.  “Women  are  always  fools  about  chil¬ 
dren!  I  thought  she  was  made  of^better  stuff  than  most  of 
them,  though.  But  I  ’ll  have  no  more  of  it ;  I  ’ll  put  a  stop 
to  it,  if  I  have  to  stop  her  breath.  Marguerite,  ever  ready  to 
do  my  bidding,  to  be  cajoled  by  those  brats  !  Pshaw  !  what 
an  absurdity !  But  I  ’ll  manage  her  yet,  if  she  don’t  take 
care.”  So  saying,  he  passed  quietly  through  the  arbor,  and 
confronted  Ralph  just  as  the  latter  was  peering  through 
every  crevice  in  the  wall  to  get  a  glimpse  beyond. 

“  Ralph,  what  are  you  doing  there?”  said  he,  quickly. 

“  Yur  ruv’rcnce,  sir,”  answered  the  gardener,  bowing  low, 

«  i 

“  I  was  lookin'*:  after  an  animal  as  run  into  that  hole.” 

“  What  sort  of  an  animal  ?  ” 

“  Wal,  yur  ruv’rence,  it  looked  mighty  like  a  cat,  only 
’t  war  n’t  bigger  ’n  a  squirrel.” 

16* 


186 


4  N  N  A  CLAYTON. 


“  Pooh !  you  foolish  fellow,  ’t  was  a  weasel,  I  suppose. 
You  must  look  out  for  the  poultry,  Ralph,  or  he  will  make 
his  supper  out  of  them.” 

i 

“  Yes,  sir ,  your  ruv’rence,”  said  Ralph,  placing  his  fore¬ 
finger  on  liis  nose  in  a  quizzical  manner,  as  he  turned  away. 

“  Look  here,  Ralph,”  said  Bernaldi,  coming  back,  as  a  sud¬ 
den  thought  seemed  to  strike  him  ;  “  did  Judy  ever  tell  you 
anything  —  about  —  what  was  beyond  that  arbor,  there  ?  ” 

“  Not  ’zactly,  yur  ruv’rence.” 

“  What  did  she  tell  you,  Ralph  ?  ”  . 

“  Wal,  she  said  yur  ruv’rence  was  mighty  kind  to  the 
poor,  and  was  bringin’  some  on  ’em  up  summers  round 
here.” 

“  Was  that  all  she  told  you,  Ralph?” 

“  It ’s  all  I  remember,  yur  ruv’rence.”  Ralph  was  an 
adept  at  mental  reservation. 

“  I  am  very  glad  to  find  Judy  is  so  discreet,”  added  Ber¬ 
naldi.  “  But,  Ralph,  you  seem  to  be  an  honest,  well-disposed 
person ;  supposing  I  should  tell  you  a  secret,  and  need  your 
assistance,  could  you  be  trusted  ?  ” 

“  Ay,  yur  ruv’rence.  Ralph  Riley  can  be  trusted  any¬ 
where,”  answered  he,  with  growing  importance. 

“  But  if  the  secret  concerned  our  holy  church,  and  you 
betrayed  it,  do  you  know  the  penance,  Ralph?” 

“  To  die  a  dog’s  death,  I  s’pose,”  growled  Ralph ;  “ it’s  no 
more  ’n  I ’d  deserve.” 

“  Worse  than  that,  Ralph.  When  you  were  dead  your 
body  would  be  thrown  to  the  dogs,  and  your  soul  cursed  into 
hell !  ” 

* 

Poor  Ralph’s  knees  knocked  together  very  perceptibly  at 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


187 


the  stern  manner  and  words  of  his  master ;  and,  devoutly 
crossing  hinself,  he  awaited  any  further  communications. 

“  But  I  know,”  continued  Bernaldi,  encouragingly,  “you 
would  sooner  die  than  be  guilty  of  anything  so  wicked.  I  see 
that  I  can  trust  you,  now ;  so,  listen  to  me  attentively,  and 
remember  all  I  say.” 

“  I  will,  yur  ruv’rence.”  And  llalph  drew  a  long  breath 
of  relief. 

“  About  a  year  ago,”  began  Bernaldi,  seating  himself  on 
a  rustic  bench,  while  the  gardener  stood,  hat  in  hand,  in  serf¬ 
like  subjection,  “  I  was  sent  for  to  see  a  poor  womam  who 
was  dying,  and  who  was  in  great  distress  because  some  of  her 
husband’s  relations  wanted  to  get  her  two  little  children  and 
make  heretics  of  them.” 

“  0 — h  !  ”  groaned  his  listener. 

“Well,  you  know,  I  could  n’t  resist  the  poor  woman’s  en- 

X. 

treaties ;  and  so,  before  she  would  receive  the  holy  sacrament, 
I  promised  I  would  see  that  they  were  brought  up  in  the  true 
faith.  You  ought  to  have  seen  how  happy  this  promise  made 
her,  and  how,  after  a  good  confession,  she  placed  her  soul  in 
the  hands  of  the  church,  that  masses  might  be  said  over  her 
till  she  was  fit  for  the  society  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Such 
a  death  as  hers  wa£  glorious,  llalph ;  for  she  lived  a  good 
Catholic,  and  now  we  have  prayed  her  soul  through  pur¬ 
gatory.” 

Balph  bowed,  with  profound  humility. 

“  But  no  sooner  was  she  dead  than  those  wretches  —  those 

* 

vile  heretics  —  tried  to  take  away  the  children;  and  I  had 
to  hide  them  away  from  their  wicked  hands.  Now,  llalph, 
what  I  want  to  tell  you  is  this.  Those  little  children  that  I 


188 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


saved  from  destruction  live  in  a  nice  cottage  in  those  woods, 
yonder,  and  the  only  way  to  get  there  is  through  that  door 
where  you  saw  me  come  out  just  now.  The  boy  has  got  some 
strange  notions  in  his  head  from  his  father’s  folks ;  and  we 
must  get  them  out  of  him.  Do  you  think  I  can  trust  you, 
Ralph,  to  keep  these  gates  all  locked,  and,  if  any  one  asks 
you  questions  about  the  children,  to  say  you  ‘  know  nothing  ’ 
of  them,  and  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  towards  everybody  that 
comes  here  ?  ” 

% 

“  Trust  me  for  all  them  things,”  answered  he,  with  a  know¬ 
ing  shake  of  his  shaggy  head. 

“  That ’s  right,  Ralph ;  you  know  what  becomes  a  good 
Catholic  when  these  heretics  try  to  cheat  us.” 

“  Give  ’em  what  they  deserve,”  said  Ralph,  warming  with 
the  subject.  “  If  they  come  near  me  with  any  of  their  infer¬ 
nal  stuff,  they  ’ll  get  it,  J  tell  ye,  yur  ruv’rence.” 

Bernaldi  smiled  encouragingly  at  his  earnestness ;  and 
Ralph,  thus  emboldened,  went  on : 

“  I  ha  n’t  lived  all  these  long  years  for  nothin’,  I  tell 
ye  ;  Ralph  Riley ’s  the  man  that  knows  what  he ’s  about.  If 
any  o’  them  devils  come  prowlin’  round  here  after  the  poor 
little  innocents,  they  ’ll  git  the  power  o’  me,  I  tell  ye,  yur 
ruv’rence.” 

His  “  ruv’rence  ”  did  not  seem  iuclined  to  check  the 
ardor  of  his  servant  in  the  least,  but  said,  as  he  rose  to  go : 

“  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  do  all  that’s  right,  Ralph;  and, 
as  I  am  going  away  for  two  or  three  weeks,  I  shall  feel  quite 
safe  to  leave  things  with  you.  There ’s  one  thing  more,  though, 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  about ;  but,  for  the  price  of  your  soul, 
don’t  you  dare  mention  what  I  say  to  any  one.  The  woman 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


189 


in  there,  who  takes  care  of  the  children,  appears  rather 
strange  lately  ;  now,  you  must  watch  her  closely,  and  tell  me, 
when  I  come  back,  everything  she  has  said  and  done.  Do  you 
understand  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  sir ,  yur  ruv’rence.” 

“  Well,  now  come  in  with  me,  till  I  make  your  promise, 
sure.” 

Ralph  followed  his  master's  steps  into  a  small  room,  and, 
kneeling  as  he  was  bid  before  the  cross,  laid  his  hand  on  the 
Bible,  and  swore  solemnly,  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  all  the 
saints,  to  be’ and  do  everything  his  priest  commanded  him. 
When  he  returned  again  to  the  garden,  it  was  with  a  much 
greater  consciousness  of  his  own  superiority  than  he  had  ever 
felt  before. 

% 

“  Now  I ’m  in  for ’t,”  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands,  with  great 
satisfaction  ;  “  see  if  Ralph  Riley  don’t  know  a  thing  or  two, 
that ’s  all !  ” 


“  I  am  vexed,  heartily  vexed,”  said  Bernaldi,  as  he  entered 
the  library,  to  its  only  occupant.  “  I  wish  there  were  no  such 
things  as  women  in  the  world  !  ” 

“  I  don’t  believe  you  would  stay  in  it  long,  then,”  replied 
the  other,  laughing  ;  “  but  what ’s  the  matter  now  ?  ” 

“  If  Marguerite  can’t  be  trusted,”  added  Bernaldi,  without 
noticing  the  jest,  “  who  is  there  that  can?” 

“Why,  what ‘makes  you  think  she  isn’t  trustworthy?” 

%  + 

asked  his  companion,  a  little  anxiously. 

Bernaldi  related  the  particulars  of  his  visit,  while  the  bishop 
listened  attentively.  “  This  must  be  looked  into  a  little  more 
carefully,”  at  length  said  the  latter ;  “  it  will  not  do  to  in- 


190 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


dulge  her  in  such  whims.  She  must  he  removed  at  once,  if 
you  suspect  any  misgivings  on  her  part.” 

“  I  think  the  lesson  I  gave  her  to-day  will  do  her  some 
good,”  replied  Bernaldi.  “  At  any  rate,  try  her  till  I 
come  back ;  she  can’t  do  much  harm  before  that.  But,  if 
you  will  allow  me,  sir,  X  would  advise  you  to  look  to  her 
often.” 

“  I  will  do  so,”  said  the  bishop ;  “  yet  I  should  have 
thought  her  capable  of  anything  but  regret.” 

“It  is  her  weakness  towards  children  that  causes  such 
feelings ;  she  told  me  as  much  herself,”  Bernaldi  answered. 

“  Curse  them,  and  her  too  !  ”  exclaimed  the  bishop ; 
“  we ’ve  got  enough  to  attend  to,  without  so  much  trouble 
about  them  !  ” 

“  I  have  sworn  in  Ralph,  our  new  gardener,  and  he 
will  keep  you  informed  of  all  her  movements,”  said  Ber¬ 
naldi. 

“  Is  he  safe  ?  ”  - 

“Yes;  I  have  made  him  so,  I  believe.” 

Ralph,  in  all  the  dignity  of  his  new  office  of  spy,  walked  up 
and  down  the  broad  gravelled  paths,  the  morning  after  his 
memorable  interview  with  his  master  and  priest.  Now  and 
then  he  would  stop  to  peer  through  the  interstices  in  the  wall 
into  the  mysteries  beyond ;  but  this  did  not  satisfy  him,  and, 
taking  from  his  pocket  a  key,  which  he  looked  at  with  great 
pride,  he  unlocked  the  door  through  which  he  had  gazed  in 
his  fright  the  day  before,  and,  imitating  as  nearly  as  possible 
the  movements  of  his  master,  he  cautiously  closed  it,  and, 
not  without  some  trembling,  found  himself  within  the  very 
enclosure  he  had  so  carefully  scanned.  But  the  last  twenty- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


191 


four  hours  had  been  fraught  with  great  events  to  Ralph ;  and 
the  consciousness  that  he  was  now  acting  as  the  confidant 
and  agent  of  his  ruv'rence  gave  him  courage.  So,  the  inner 
door  was  opened,  according  to  his  directions,  and,  looking 
around,  he  saw  nothing  but  a  well-trodden  path  hedged  by 
the  thick  wood.  Naturally  far  from  being  courageous,  and 
not  a  little  superstitious  withal,  Ralph  hesitated  before  closing 
the  door  after  him ;  but  the  twittering  of  birds  and  the 
chirping  of  squirrels  overhead  were  all  the  sounds  that  met 
his  ear,  and  he  ventured  a  little  way  along,  though  the  slight¬ 
est  sudden  noise  would  have  sent  him  rushing  back  to  his 
quarters.  The  perfect  quietude  of  the  forest  seemed  to  reas¬ 
sure  him,  and  he  followed  the  beaten  track  till  it  led  him  to  an 
opening,  where  he  started  back  with  surprise. 

Ralph’s  weakest  point,  and  one  which  he  had  always  con¬ 
sidered  a  failing,  was  very  sensibly  affected  by  the  sight  which 
here  met  his  gaze,  and  riveted  him  to  the  spot ;  for  on  a 
grassy  plot  before  the  cottage  door  sat  little  Myrtie,  her  lap 
and  chubby  arms  filled  with  flowers,  joining  in  Charlie’s  glee 
as  he  danced  around  her,  and  clapping  her  little  fat  hands  for 
joy  as  he  threw  a  fresh  load  of  glowing  roses  over  her. 

“  Pshaw !  ”  said  Ralph,  brushing  away  a  tear  from  his 
rough  cheek ;  “  what  do  I  care  for  children  ?  I  wish  I 
was  n’t  such  a  plaguy  fool,  though !  I  won’t  mind  them,  any¬ 
how  !  ”  and  he  strode  up  to  the  cottage  door,  fully  determined 
to  conquer,  for  once,  this  foolish  weakness  of  his  nature. 

Charlie  and  his  little  sister  both  sprang  at  once  towards  the 
door,  frightened  at  the  unwonted  sight  of  a  strange  face  ;  but 
Myrtie’s  step  was  not  so  firm  as  her  brother’s,  and,  in  her 
haste,  she  fell  upon  the  corner  of  the  door-step,  cutting  a  gash 


192 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


in  her  temple,  which  in  a  moment  covered  her  little  face  with 
blood.  Her  screams  brought  out  the  only  two  occupants  of 
the  cottage  at  once  to  her  assistance,  but  not  before  Ralph 
had  caught  her  in  his  arms,  stanching  the  wound  with  his 
handkerchief,  and  soothing  her  cries  as  gently  as  a  woman. 
’T  was  strange  to  see  that  great  uncouth  being  bend  so  tenderly 
over  the  little  form  in  his  arms  ;  but  stranger  still  were  the 
beatings  of  that  untutored  heart  beneath  its  light  load,  for 
then  and  there  did  Ralph,  despite  all  his  resolutions,  receive 
that  little  nestling  as  his  guardian  angel,  bestowing  upon  her, 
at  the  same  time,  so  much  love,  that  naught  remained.  Alas, 
poor  Ralph !  he  has  unwittingly  thrown  himself  into  a  laby¬ 
rinth  of  difficulty,  through  which  even  that  innocent  guardian¬ 
ship  may  not  be  able  to  guide  him !  ^ 

“  Beg  your  pardon,  ma’am,”  said  he,  as  Marguerite  started 
back,  on  seeing  the  child  in  his  arms.  “  I  did  n’t  mean  to  hurt 
her.  There,  sh— !  sh —  !  ”  and  he  raised  the  little  forehead 
to  his  lips.  --  » 

“  How  came  you  here  ?  ”  she  asked,  in  no  very  pleasant 
tones,  as  she  held  out  her  hands  for  the  child.  But  the 
spiritual  telegraph  had  been  faithfully  at  work  the  last 
moment,  and  Myrtie  clung  to  her  new  protector,  who  pressed 
her  more  closely  to  his  heart. 

“  I  ’in  only  Ralph,  the  gardener,”  said  he,  apologetically  ; 
“  I  thought  you  would  be  lonesome  like,  and  so,  by  leave  of 
my  master,  I  come  over  to  see  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you.” 

The  lady’s  countenance  changed ;  for,  besides  being  glad 
of  almost  any  interruption  of  her  monotonous  life,  she  had 
a  woman’s  curiosity  to  learn  all  the  gossip  of  the  place,  and 
she  thought  this  a  fine  opportunity. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


193 


“So,  you  are  the  new  gardener,  are  you?  Well,  you  may 
come  in  while  I  wash  the  blood  from  Myrtie’s  face ;  she  can’t 
be  hurt  very  much,  I  think.” 

Marguerite  spoke  pleasantly,  and  Ralph  began  to  look  upon 
her  as  some  nice  body. 

“  I  allers  did  take  to  children,”  said  he,  as  they  went 
into  the  house ;  “  but  that ’s  the  purtiest  darlin  ’  I  ever 
see.” 

“  Yes,  she ’s  a  dear  little  thing  ;  but,  Myrtie,  what  makes 
you  run  to  that  man  so?  Won’t  you  sit  in  Margery’s 
lap  ?  ” 

“  No,  no  !  ”  cried  she,  as  she  nestled  again  into  those  great 
arms,  and  still  deeper  into  the  heart  beneath,  “  sissy  love  a 
sit  here.” 

“  ’T  would  be  a  plaguy  shame  for  them  heretics  to  git  hold 
o’  this  birdie,  would  n’t  it,  now  ?  ”  said  Ralph,  smoothing  the 
little  flaxen  ringlets  with  his  huge  paw. 

Marguerite  looked  at  him  in  blank  astonishment.  “  What 
do  }fou  mean  ?  ”  asked  she,  quickly. 

“  0,  nothin’  special,”  said  he,  with  much  confusion,  as  his 
oath  popped  into  his  mind. 

“But  you  did  mean  something;  what  was  it ?”  persisted 
Marguerite. 

“’Twan’t  nothin’  at  all,”  —  and  Ralph’s  agitation  visibly 
increased, —  “  only,  you  know,  they ’re  allers  trying  to  get 
away  our  best  ’uns.” 

Marguerite  saw  that  he  knew  more  than  he  chose  to  tell ; 
but  the  nature  and  extent  of  his  information  she  was  deter- 
mined  to  find  out,  half  hoping  that,  by  some 'means,  he  had 
learned  their  story. 

IT 


194  ANNA  CLAYTON. 

“  What  is  a  heretic,  Margery  ?  ”  asked  little  Charlie,  who 
who  had  been  an  interested  though  unnoticed  listener. 

“  A  heretic,  child  !  Why,  they  are  dreadful  wicked  folks, 
that  will  roast  little  children  and  eat  them,  if  they  can  catch 
them.” 

“  Where  do  they  live,  Margery  ?  ”  said  he,  drawing 
closer  to  her,  and  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  woods. 

“  0,  they  live  all  about  here ;  and,  if  we  did  n’t  take 
good  care  of  you,  they  would  soon  get  you  and  Myrtie.” 

“  Can’t  God  drive  them  off?  ”  he  asked,  innocently. 

“  What  a  strange  boy  this  is  !  ”  exclaimed  Marguerite, 
taking  him  into  her  lap.  “  The  good  father  can  keep  them 
away  from  you,  if  you  do  just  as  he  tells  you.” 

“  That ’s  it,  boy,”  chimed  in  Ralph  ;  “  you  must  please  his 
ruv’rence,  if  you  want  him  to  save  you.” 

Charlie  gazed,  in  childish  wonder,  from  the  honest,  rough 
visage  of  one,  into  the  pale,  anxious  face  of  the  other ;  and, 
unable  to  cope  with  such  intellects,  ran  off  to  his  play,  calling 
Myrtie  to  join  him. 

“  Them ’s  picters,  I  tell  ye  !  ”  cried  Ralph,  following  their 
little  forms  with  his  longing  eyes.  “Ye  don’t  see  such  every 
day.  ” 

“  That ’s  true,”  replied  Marguerite  ;  “  but  how  came  you  to 
know  anything  about  them  ?  ” 

“  0,  ’t  an’t  none  o’  my  business,”  said  Ralph,  scratching 
his  head,  with  a  perplexed  air ;  “  but  his  ruv’rence  told  me  to 
look  in  upon  ye  sometimes,  while  he ’s  gone.” 

“  Gone  !  where  has  he  gone  now  ?  ” 

f*  Can’t  tell  ye,  ma’am,  ’cause  I  never  meddle  with  other 
folks’  fyisiness,” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


195 


% 


“  He  goes  away  often,  don't  he  ?  ” 

“  Yes ’m.” 

“  Does  he  go  far,  do  you  think  ?  ” 

“  Don’t  know ’m.” 

“  You  don’t  seem  to  be  very  communicative,”  said  his  inter¬ 
rogator,  smiling,  as  she  went  to  the  closet  and  took  out  some 
glasses  and  nice  sandwiches.  “  Won’t  you  have  a  lunch  ?  ” 

“  Thank  ye,  ma’am.”  And  Ralph’s  eyes  glistened  as  she 
poured  out  the  tempting  draught,  which  he  swallowed  without 
a  moment’s  hesitation.  Another  and  another  followed,  his 
heart  growing  warmer  with  each  glass,  until  Marguerite  saw 
the  advantage  she  had  gained,  and  said,  as  she  filled  it  again, 
for  the  fourth  time, 

“  Now,  Ralph,  we  might  be  very  good  friends,  if  you  were 
not  so  shy,  and  afraid  to  tell  me  anything.” 

“  Shy,  am  I  ?  That ’s  where  you  ’re  mistaken,  I  tell  ye. 
Ralph  Riley  an’t  ’fraid  o’  nobody  !  ” . 

“  Why  did  n’t  you  tell  me,  then,  what  I  asked  you  just 
now  ?  ” 

“  ’Cause  I  did  n’t  feel  like  it.” 

“  0,  now  you  ’re  a  nice  fellow,  you  mean  to  tell  me,  don’t 
you  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  ’ll  tell  ye  anything,  only  what  his  ruv’rence  told 
me  not  to.” 

“  What  was  that,  Ralph  ?  ” 

“  About  them  young — 0,  I  forgot  —  ’tan’t  nothin’.” 

“  There,  Ralph,  I  told  you,  just  now,  you  was  afraid  to 
tell.” 

“  I  au’t  ’fraid,  neither ;  but  I  swared,  on  my  knees,  I 
would  n’t.” 


v 


196 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  I  am  glad  you  keep  your  promise  so  well ;  but,  as  I  know 
all  about  it,  now,  it  will  do  no  harm  for  us  to  talk  it  over,  you 
know,”  said  the  crafty  Jesuit. 

“  Do  you  really,  though?”  asked  Ralph,  brightening  up  at 
the  pleasant  idea  of  such  a  confidant. 

“  Ask  Father  Bernaldi  if  I  don’t,”  replied  she. 

“Well,  then,  maybe  you  can  tell  me  who  ’t  is  he  wanted 
me  to  watch  here.”  Ralph  spoke  in  a  low  tone ;  but  Mar¬ 
guerite  started  as  though  smitten  by  an  unseen  hand.  Recov¬ 
ering  herself  instantly,  she  replied,  carelessly, 

“  It ’s  Ellen,  I  suppose.  But  what  did  he  want  you  to 
watch  her,  for  ?  ” 

“  0,  ’cause  he  said  she ’s  gettin’  some  strange  notions  into 
her  head,  and  so  he  wants  me  to  tell  him  all  she  says  and 
does.” 

“  She  is  rather  strange  !  But,  Ralph,  you  won’t  tell  him 
anything  only  what  I  tell  you  to,  will  you  ?  ” 

“  No,  I  won’t,  that ’s  a  fact,”  replied  the  half-drunken  gar¬ 
dener. 

“  What  did  he  say  about  the  children,  Ralph  ?  ” 

“  0,  he  told  me  all  ’bout  ’em ; —  how  their  mother  died,  and 
how  the  darned  old  heretics  tried  to  steal  ’em,  and  how  he ’d 
put  ’em  in  here,  so  they  could  n’t  find  ’em.  You  know  all  ’bout 
it,  I  s’pose.” 

“  Yes,  that  I  do  !  ”  she  exclaimed,  while  her  lip  curled  with 
contempt  for  him  who  had  thus  set  a  spy  upon  her  actions ; 
for  rightly  she  conjectured  that  she  was  the  one  to  be 
watched. 

“You  and  I  can  talk  these  things  over  together  some  other 
time,  Ralph,  now  we  understand  each  other ;  but  I  must  sco 


ANNA  OLAYTON. 


197 


to  the  children,  now.  Perhaps  you  can  come  over  this  after¬ 
noon,  when  I  am  not  so  busy.” 

t:  Tes’m,  I  will,”  said  Ralph,  as  he  left  the  cottage,  with 
a  somewhat  unsteady  step. 

“  So  it  has  come  to  this,  at  last !  ”  murmured  Marguerite, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  and  covering  her  face  with  both  hands. 
“  lie  whom  I  trusted  in  my  youth  only  to  be  betrayed,  and 
whose  every  word  has  since  been  my  law,  degrades  me  even 
to  his  servant !  Suspects  strange  notions,  does  he?  Well  he 
may,  while  he  is  my  counsellor  and  guide!  What  a  blind  fool 
I  have  been,  all  my  days !  One  lesson,  though,  I  will  not 
forget.  The  cunning  and  guile  he  has  taught  me  shall  now 
be  practised  on  himself,  and  he  shall  yet  learn  what  it  is  to 
be  outwitted  by  a  wroman !  ” 

17* 


4 


CHAPTER  XX. 

“  Thou  hast  prevaricated  with  thy  friend, 

By  underhand  contrivances  undone  me.” 

Howe  • 

v  . 

%  >  - 

Notwithstanding  the  business  which  called  Bernaldi  away 
was  important,  exceedingly  so,  and  at  any  other  time  would 
have  engrossed  all  his  thoughts  and  energies,  he  left  the 
chateau  reluctantly,  and  in  no  very  enviable  mood.  So  many 
years  had  Marguerite  been  in  his  service,  never  hesitating  or 
wavering  in  her  obedience  to  his  unquestioned  authority,  he 
had  looked  upon  her  as  a  life-bound  slave.  That  she  should 
dare  indulge  for  a  moment  in  such  feelings  as  she  confessed 
to  him,  was  no  less  a  matter  of  surprise  than  vexation.  But, 
situated  as  she  was  towards  him,  with  so  many  dark  secrets 
in  her  keeping,  it  would  not  be  safe  to  place  her  beyond  his 
influence.  To  one  cold,  dark  spot  would  he  consign  her,  did 
not  his  craven  heart  fear  detection. 

“  A  truce  to  these  thoughts  !  ”  exclaimed  he,  at  length,  as 
he  proceeded  rapidly  on  his  journey ;  “  her  insolence  shall  be 
punished  if  I  don’t  find  her  in  good  subjection  when  I  return ; 
but  now  I  have  more  important  business  to  attend  to.”  And 
he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  neatly-folded  letter,  on  which  was 
inscribed,  in  a  fair  and  delicate  hand,  his  own  name.  The 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


199 


self-satisfied  air  with  which  he  unfolded  and  re-read  the  little 
missive,  and  the  smile  of  triumph  which  gradually  broke  over 
his  face  as  he  pondered  its  contents,  showed  that  here,  at 
least,  success  was  his.  Well  might  he  smile  exultingly, — 
for  Emilie  Dc  Vere  was  no  slight  conquest,  and  she  it  was 
who  had  written  the  note  he  held  in  his  hand,  signifying  her 
readiness  to  enter  a  conventual  life,  if  her  father  could  be 
persuaded  to  consent  to  it.  To'  this  condition  the  priest  gave 
not  the  slightest  heed  ;  for  well  he  knew  that,  her  mind  once 
made  lip  to  this  course,  it  mattered  little  whether  the  haughty 
Lord  Do  Vere  consented  or  not.  Her  large  fortune  was  now 
at  her  own  disposal ;  and,  though  at  her  father’s* death  it 
would  be  considerably  increased,  he  was  disposed  to  adopt  the 
old  adage,  “  A  bird  in  the  hand,”  etc.,  and  secure  the  treas¬ 
ure  while  yet  within  his  grasp.  Her  implied  determination 
to  abide  by  her  father’s  decision  caused  only  a  contemptuous 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  as  Bernaldi  thought  how  utterly  weak 
were  all  such  influences  when  brought  within  the  pale  of  the 
confessional. 

AVhat  rival  need  the  confessor  fear?  Does  he  not  hold 
unlimited  power  over  the  body  and  soul  of  his  deluded  sub¬ 
jects?  So,  at  least,  reasoned  Lady  Emilie’s  confessor,  as  he 
drew  near  Ravenswood,  whose  extensive  parks  and  highly- 
cultivated  grounds  would  so  soon  become  the  property  of  the 
church  he  served.  Ilis  own  share  of  the  spoils  did  not,  of 
course,  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  the  godly  man  ! 

“  I  would  see  your  master,  Lord  De  Vere,”  said  Bernaldi 
to  the  servant  who  answered  his  summons. 

“  Lord  De  Vere  is  in  the  library.  Will  your  reverence 
wait  upon  him  there  ?  ”  replied  the  latter. 


200 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  If  he  so  desires ;”  and  Bernaldi  followed  the  man,  who 
ushered  him,  without  ceremony,  into  his  lordship’s  presence. 

That  nobleman  turned,  frowningly,  to  his  servant,  to  rebuke 
the  sudden  intrusion ;  but,  seeing  who  the  visitor  was,  he 
advanced,  with  extended  hand,  and  cordially  welcomed  the 
holy  father. 

“  You  have  really  surprised  me  in  dishabille,”  said  he, 
glancing  at  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers;  “but  John  does 
not  often  play  me  such  a  trick,  or  I  should  be  better  prepared 
for  him.” 

“  It  is  I  who  should  apologize,”  replied  Bernaldi,  “  for  so 
unceremoniously  intruding  myself ;  but  I  supposed  your  servant 
was  obeying  your  directions  in  inviting  me  hither,  and  so 
followed  him  without  hesitation.” 

“We  will  dispense  with  further  compliments  on  this  sub¬ 
ject,”  said  his  lordship,  smiling  and  motioning  Bernaldi  to  a 
seat,  while  he  resumed  the  one  from  which  he  had  risen. 
“  Your  presence  is  always  welcome,  but  particularly  so  just 
at  this  time.  My  daughter  Emilie  has  strangely  altered  since 
Sir  Charles’  death,  and  obstinately  persists  in  her  determina¬ 
tion  to  immure  herself  in  a  convent.” 

“  So  she  writes  me,”  said  Bernaldi,  showing  him  the  letteT, 
“  and  I  thought  it  advisable  to  confer  with  you  on  the  subject 
before  I  see  her.” 

“Very  thoughtful,  indeed,  in  you,  most  excellent  father; 
I  was  not  aware,  though,  that  she  had  written  to  you  concern¬ 
ing  it.  You  have  great  influence  over  her,  and  I  trust  will 
be  able  to  dissuade  her  from  a  course  which  will  bring  wretch¬ 
edness  to  my  heart  and  home.” 

“  Certainly,  my  dear  sir ;  your  lordship  may  depend  upon 


INNA  CLAYTON. 


201 


my  doing  all  within  my  power  for  your  interest.  But  what 
does  Lady  Emilio  say  to  all  your  arguments  and  entrea¬ 
ties  ?  ” 

“  She  has  assured  me  that  she  will  never  take  such  a  step 
without  my  approval,  though  her  happiness  depends  upon  it. 
Sometimes  I  think  the  separation  would  not  be  so  painful  to 
me  as  to  see  her  so  melancholy  and  sad.  Her  heart  seems 
buried  in  Sir  Charles’  grave.  What  would  you  advise  me  to 
do  or  say  ?  ” 

“  Eerily,  my  lord,  I  have  not  reflected  sufliciently  to  advise 
you.  Doubtless,  the  fervent  piety  and  strict  religious  devo¬ 
tion  of  the  sisterhood  would  have  great  effect  in  tranquillizing 
Lady  Emilie’s  mind,  and,  perhaps,  might  lead  her  into  right 
views  of  the  duty  she  owes  her  only  parent.” 

“  0,  if  I  could  only  hope  for  such  a  result !  ”  exclaimed  the 
unhappy  father ;  “  but,  supposing  it  were  so,  when  once  she 
has  cast  her  lot  with  them,  she  cannot  go  back.” 

“  Let  her,  then,  enter  the  novitiate,”  cunningly  suggested 
the  priest ;  “  there,  for  one  year,  she  will  have  unrestricted 
liberty  to  go  and  come  at  pleasure ;  and,  surely,  in  that  time 
she  must  relent.” 

Had  not  his  lordship  been  overcome  with  mental  anguish, 
he  must  have  noticed  the  searching  look  which  accompanied 
these  words.  Bernaldi  was  a  little  fearful  that  he  had  ven¬ 
tured  too  far  in  this  his  first  interview ;  but  Lord  De  Yere 
thought  only  of  the  grief  of  parting  with  his  only  child,  even 
for  one  year. 

“  Go  now  to  her,”  cried  he,  at  length,  rapidly  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room  ;  “  save  her  from  this  fate,  and  you  shall 


I 


202 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


have  my  eternal  gratitude ;  ay,  and  more  than  that,  too,” 
touching,  significantly,  his  purse. 

Bernaldi  assumed  a  look  of  mingled  grief  and  indignation. 
“  Have  I,  then,  fallen  so  low  in  your  lordship’s  estimation,” 
said  he,  “  that  you  hope  to  bribe  me  to  accomplish  that  which 
the  holy  mother  knows  I  would  die  now  to  do  !  ” 

“  Forgive  me,  most  worthy  father !  I  raver  for  a  moment 
doubted  the  purity  of  your  intentions,  or  meant  to  insinuate 
aught  against  your  perfect  uprightness ;  but  my  whole  fortune 
would  be  worthless  to  me,  separated  from  that  dear  child ; 
indeed,  I  could  scarce  hope  to  survive  it and  the  proud, 
haughty  man  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  wTept  like  a  child. 

“  Do  not,  my  dear  sir,”  whispered  the  priest,  “  allow  yourself 
to  give  way  to  such  grief.  Possibly  this  dreaded  evil  may  be 
averted,  and  Lady  Emilie  restored  to  herself  again.  I  will 
seek  her,  and  use  all  my  influence  in  your  behalf,” —  and  he 
left  the  still  weeping  father,  and  noiselessly  glided  to  Lady 
Emilie’s  boudoir.  For  a  moment  he  stood  gazing  at  the  scene 
before  him,  his  heart  bounding  with  ecstacy  that  the' beautiful 
being  who  knelt  there,  absorbed  in  such  heavenly  meditations, 
would  soon  be  within  his  power.  The  robes  of  mourning, 
which  she  still  wore  in  remembrance  of  the  dead,  gave  to  her 
colorless  face  an  almost  ethereal  beauty,  while  the  deep  devo¬ 
tion  that  was  now  burning  within  her  beamed  forth  from  her 
dark  eyes  with  holy  light.  Bernaldi  must  have  been  more 
than  mortal  to  look  upon  her  thus  unmoved,  knowing  that,  by 
cautious  management,  the  prize  might  be  secured ;  but,  he  felt 
equal  to  the  task,  and  approached  her  with  the  easy  assurance 
of  one  who  is  confident  of  success. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


203 


“  Benedicite !  ”  he  solemnly  pronounced,  laying  his  hand 
on  her  head,  as  she  arose. 

“  Thanks,  good  father,”  she  humbly  replied. 

“  What  have  been  thy  thoughts,  my  daughter,  while  kneel-1 

i 

ing  here  before  the  cross  ?  Does  earth  still  bind  thee  to  its 
sordid  pleasures,  or  hast  thou  already  a  foretaste  of  the  joys 
which  belong  only  to  those  who  crucify  the  flesh,  that  so  their 
hearts  may  be  purified?  ” 

“  I  am  in  a  state  of  doubt  and  perplexity,  most  holy 
father,”  Lady  Emilie  replied.  “  To  the  world  and  its  vani¬ 
ties  I  am  indeed  dead ;  but,  for  my  father’s  sake,  must  I  not 
still  mingle  in  its  pleasures?  It  is  to  decide  this  question 
that  I  wished  so  earnestly  to  see  you,  my  spiritual  guide.” 

“  What  says  the  holy  word,  my  daughter  ?  ‘  He  that  loveth 
father  or  mother  more  than  me,  is  not  worthy  of  me.’  The 
ever-blessed  and  holy  mother  of  Jesus  will  not  suffer  aught  to 
come  between  her  love  and  thine.  You  cannot  be  truly  her 
disciple  till  you  are  willing  to  cast  every  earthly  lust  at  her 
feet,  and  do  whatsoever  she  commands  you.” 

“  Though  torture  and  death  were  in  my  path,”  cried  the 
infatuated  girl,  “  I  could  fearlessly  meet  them  all,  to  be  thought 
worthy  a  humble  place  among  the  sisterhood  of  saints ;  but 
my  father !  0,  my  father  !  who  could  fulfil  my  duties  to  him  ?  ” 

“  You  have  no  duties,  my  daughter,  aside  from  those  you 
owe  the  church  ;  and  this  remnant  of  earthly  affection  is  the 
very  sin  you  must  crucify.” 

“  And  so  I  will,”  murmured  she,  falling  on  her  knees  be¬ 
fore  the  crucifix.  “  Blessed  Mother,  hear  me,  as  I  surrender 
this  last  tie  at  thy  command,  henceforth  to  be  thine  only  !  ” 

“  Amen !  ”  solemnly  added  the  priest ;  “  now,  indeed,  thy 


204 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


home  should  be  among  the  holy  ones,  whose  life  on  earth  is 
but  a  type  of  eternal  rest  and  joy  !  ” 

“  My  heart  is  ready,  holy  father,  if  you  but  point  the 
way.” 

“  I  would  spare  your  noble  father’s  feelings,”  answered  the 
Jesuit,  “  as  far  as  we  can,  consistently.  I  have  already  pro¬ 
posed  to  him  that  you  spend  one  year  as  a  novice  before  you 
take  the  veil  which  separates  you  from  the  world.  And  thus 
he  may  be  won,  by  witnessing  your  calm  and  happy  life,  to 
yield  you  up  with  gladness  to  your  glorious  destiny.” 

“  How  kind  and  thoughtful  in  you  !  But  he  —  what  did  he 
say  ?  will  he  consent  ?  ”  she  asked,  eagerly. 

“  He  will,  without  doubt.  And  now  that  your  mind  is 
settled,  and  at  rest  about  your  duty,  I  will  return  again  to 
Lord  De  Yere,  whom  I  left  in  the  library;  and  this  evening 
arrangements  can  be  made  for  your  removal  to  the  peaceful 
and  quiet  home  you  have  so  wisely  chosen.” 

“  Then  will  my  prayers  be  answered,”  exclaimed  the  fair 
enthusiast,  “  when,  united  by  more  than  mortal  vows,  I  clasp 
to  my  heart  those  holy  sisters,  whose  pure  and  spotless  lives  it 
shall  ever  be  my  study  to  imitate.” 


J 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


% 


**  For  ho 

That  sows  in  craft  does  reap  in  jealousy.” 

Middleton. 

Ten  years,  in  rapid  and  noiseless  flight,  have  passed  away, 
and,  save  in  our  little  captives,  no  outward  change  is  visible 
in  and  about  the  chateau.  True,  a  few  more  wrinkles  have 
been  added  to  Bernaldi’s  face,  and  silvery  hairs  are  here  and 
there  sprinkled  in  his  dark  locks ;  true,  the  bishop’s  form  is 
more  bent,  and  age  comes  creeping  on  with  faltering  step  and 
hidden  mien,  but  so  gradually  does  it  make  its  dark  inroads, 
that  all  seems  unchanged.  Ralph  is  still  the  honest,  stupid 
gardener,  watching  with  jealous  care  the  unfolding  bud  whose 
germ  was  engrafted  in  his  heart  as  he  caught  the  wee  tod¬ 
dling  thing  in  his  arms  at  the  cottage  door,  and  whose  daily- 
increasing  beauty  and  loveliness  have  been  his  constant  and 
almost  only  delight.  There  he  stands  now,  with  his  chin 
resting  upon  his  spade,  seemingly  in  deep  and  anxious  thought ; 
for  now  and  then  a  big  tear  drops  from  under  those  shaggy 
brows,  and  a  sigh  deep  and  long  bursts  from  his  true  heart. 
Softly  the  door  of  the  arbor  uncloses,  and  a  perfect  little 
vision  of  loveliness  peeps  out,  and,  tripping  lightly  along, 
18 


206 


ANNA  CLAYTON 


clasps  his  great  hand,  with  a  joyous,  childish  laugh  that  she 
has  for  once  surprised  him. 

“  0,  you  rogue !  ”  he  exclaimed ;  “  I  bleve  you  ’re  a  farey, 
and  jumped  out  o’  that  bush  to  scare  me.” 

“  What  is  a  fairy,  Ralph  ?  ”  said  she,  after  a  hearty  laugh 
at  his  exclamation.  - 

“  0,  they  ’re  real  little  beauties,  I  tell  ye,  that  live  in 
flowers  and  bushes;  and  sometimes  they  bring  us  good  things.” 

“  0,  I  wish  I  could  see  one  !  ”  cried  Myrtie.  “  What  do 
they  look  like  ?  ” 

“  Like  you,  only  they  an’t  half  so  putty.” 

“  Like  me,  Ralph  !  Why,  I  could  not  live  in  a  flower !  ”  and 
she  looked  a*,  little  puzzled,  and  a  very  little  angry,  at  this 
seeming  slight  to  her  important  growth. 

“  Wal,  I  most  wish  you  could,  ’cause  then  I ’d  hide  ye 
where  nobody  could  n’t  find  ye ;  ”  and  then  he  muttered,  in  an 
under  tone,  “  I  say  it ’s  a  shame  to  shut  her  up  in  that  ’tarnal 
old  convent!  ” 

“  Did  you  say  they  give  us  good  things,  Ralph  ?  ” 

“Yes,  duckey,  sometimes.” 

“  What,  everything  we  ask  them  to  ?  ” 

“ Wal,  I  should  think  they’d  give  you  putty  much  any¬ 
thing  you  wanted,”  answered  the  partial  gardener, 

“  0,  I  wish  I  could  see  one !  ”  cried  Myrtie  again ;  “  I 
know  what  I ’d  ask  ’em  to  give  me.” 

“  Wal,  what ’s  that,  duckey  ?  ” 

She  put  her  mouth  close  to  Ralph’s  ear,  and  whispered 
something  that  made  him  start. 

“  Why,  what  put  that  into  your  head  ?  ”  he  asked,  looking 
at  her  with  surprise. 


AN  NA  0  LAYTON. 


207 


“  0,  Charlie  has  told  me  all  about  it,”  said  she,  and  her 
little  face  grew  very  sad ;  “  but  we  mean  to  run  away,  when 
we  are  bigger,  and  find  her.” 

“  Hush !  don’t  speak  so  loud,”  said  Ralph.  “  If  his  ruv’rence 
should  hear  you  talk  so,  he ’d  put  you  where  I  should  n’t  see 
you  agin,  I  tell  ye.” 

“  Yes,  but  he  don’t  know  it,  and  Margery  don’t  know  it, 
and  nobody  don’t  know  it  but  you.  Charlie  said  I  might  tell 
you ,  ’cause  you  would  n’t  tell  nobody,  would  you  ?  ” 

“I’d  sooner  cut  my  head  off!  ”  exclaimed  Ralph,  warmly. 
“No,  duckey,  you  needn’t  be  afraid  to  tell  Ralph  Riley  any¬ 
thing  ;  I ’d  go  to  purgatory  this  minit  for  ye.” 

Myrtie  had  had  sufficient  evidence  of  that  before,  and 
she  knew  intuitively  that  her  confidence  in  him  was  not  mis¬ 
placed.  She  threw  her  fair  arms  lovingly  around  his  great 
neck,  and  her  sunny  ringlets  contrasted  strangely  with  his 
tangled  locks ;  but  what  cared  she,  while  his  was  the  only 
heart,  save  her  brother’s,  upon  which  she  could  lean  in  perfect 
trust?  “  0,  Ralph,”  said  she,  “you  ’re  a  dear,  good  Ralph  !  ” 
And  then  she  whispered,  “  When  we  go,  Charlie  and  I,  you 
shall  go  too,  —  won’t  you  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  duckey,”  said  he,  more  to  quiet  her  than  anything 
else. 

Ralph’s  unfailing  devotion  to  the  sweet  little  girl  had  won 
for  him  Marguerite’s  special  favor,  and  she  had  confided  to 
him,  what  she  dared  not  to  any  other,  the  story  of  the 
orphans,  and  her  own  wicked  part  in  their  abduction.  Her 
failing  health,  admonishing  her  of  the  uncertainty  of  life,  had 
brought,  with  thoughts  of  death,  bitter  reflections  on  her  past 
conduct.  The  fountains  of  her  heart  had  been  opened  by  the 


208 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


pure,  innocent  affection  of  the  children  she  had  so  cruelly  de¬ 
prived  of  a  mother’s  love,  and,  now  that  she  must  inevitably 
leave  them,  she  shuddered  at  their  fate,  and  longed  to  restore 
them  even  to  that  hated  heretic  mother.  For  herself,  she 
knew  no  other  religion  than  the  priest  had  taught  her;  but  for 
the  little  ones,  who  could  scarcely  be  more  dear  were  they  her 
own,  she  desired  something  purer  and  better.  What  that 
something  should  be,  she  could  not  tell ;  but  there  lay  hidden 
in  her  heart  a  secret  remembrance  of  the  pious  words  and 
lovely  example  of  the  gentle  pastor’s  wife,  whom  she  had 
often  seen  and  heard  while  at  Squire  Clayton’s,  and  she  felt 
persuaded  that  Charlie  and  Myrtie  would  be  safer  under  such 
influences  than  in  the  convent  and  monastery  to  which  Ber- 
naldi  was  soon  to  consign  them.  She  had  never  dared  give 
utterance  to  such  thoughts,  even  at  the  confessional,  though 

r- 

for  such  an  omission  she  feared  her  soul  might  be  lost ;  but 
she  distrusted  Bernaldi,  and  to  no  other  would  he  allow  her 
to  confess.  The  secret,  therefore,  remained  with  her,  and  her 
heart  was  filled  wTith  burning  thoughts  and  resolves.  To 
Balph,  the  only  one  about  her  in  whom  she  had  any  confi¬ 
dence,  she  had  told  all  she  dared ;  but  to  the  children  them¬ 
selves  she  had  never  mentioned  the  subject,  though  often  im¬ 
portuned  by  Charlie,  who  retained  a  vivid  recollection  of  his 
mother’s  agony  when  he  was  taken  from  her.  The  little  fel¬ 
low  had  received  such  threats  from  Bernaldi,  that  now  it  was 
only  in  whispered  conferences  with  Myrtie  that  he  dared  men¬ 
tion  his  mother  at  all.  She — little,  confiding  creature !  — kept 
nothing  from  Ralph,  and  so  he  was  made  the  depository  of 
all  her  sage  thoughts  on  the  subject.  The  faithful  gardener 
would  sooner  die  than  betray  her  trust,  and  his  honest  heart, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


209 


it  must  be  confessed,  wavered  somewhat  in  its  allegiance  to 
his  “  ruv’rence,”  as  he  listened  with  indignation  to  the  story 
of  their  wrongs. 

Bernaldi’s  quick  instinct  detected  something  wrong  in  the 
atmosphere  about  him  ;  but  fear  made  his  servants,  for  once, 
as  wary  as  himself,  and  he  still  remained  ignorant  of  the 
change  which  was  gradually  taking  place  in  the  hearts  of  his 
dependents.  He,  however,  thought  it  advisable  to  place 
Charlie  at  once  within  the  walls  of  the  cloister  adjoining  the 
chateau,  where  his  own  influence  would  be  felt  more  strongly, 
and  he  could  more  easily  control  the  boy’s  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. 

o 

On  the  very  afternoon  when  Myrtle  clung  so  lovingly  to  her 
rough  protector  and  confidant,  Bernaldi  passed  them  on  his 
way  to  the  cottage,  to  make  known  his  determination  to  Mar- 
guerite.  He  found  her  reclining  languidly  in  her  easy-ehair, 
her  wan  features  growing  a  shade  paler  with  each  successive 
visit,  which,  of  late,  had  been  infrequent,  and  deep  dejection 
visible  in  every  lineament  of  her  usually  calm  and  stoical 
face.  On  a  stool  near  her  Charlie  sat  reading  aloud  to  be¬ 
guile  her  weariness,  and  now  and  then  stopping  to  express  his 
earnest  sympathy  in  her  evident  suffering.  ’T  was  strange  to 
see  the  thoughtfulness  with  which  this  boy  of  fourteen  watched 
her  varying  emotions,  changing,  with  each  mood,  his  reading  or 
remarks ;  strange,  too,  was  it  to  see  the  heartless,  intriguing, 
guilt-stained  Jesuit  transformed  into  the  sad,  sorrowful, 
repentant  woman !  But  such  a  scene  had  no  power  to  soften 
the  obdurate  heart  of  the  priest,  who  now  stood  before  them, 
secretly  rejoicing  in  the  misery  he  was  about  to  inflict  upon 
them.  He  was  jealous  of  Marguerite’s  affection  for  these 
18* 


210 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


children ;  not  that  he  cared  aught  for  her  whom  he  had  long 
since  cast  off  as  a  worn-out  slave,  but  that  his  own  power 
over  her  should  be  supplanted  by  a  mere  boy,  he  could  not 
endure.  Nor  did  the  evident  shrinking  with  which  they 
received  his  salutation  escape  the  keen  observation  of  this 
J esuit.  He  had  before  noticed  this,  and  now  he  would  have 
his  revenge,  by  separating  them  forever. 

“  I  am  glad  to  find  you  looking  so  comfortable  and  happy,” 
said  he,  smilingly,  seating  himself  to  his  task.  “  You  are 
certainly  improving,  Marguerite  ;  we  shall  have  you  out  again 
before  long,  I  trust.” 

“  I  cannot  say  that  I  either  expect  or  wish  for  such  a  result 
to  my  illness,”  she  replied,  sadly. 

“I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,”  said  Bernaldi.  “I  did 
hope  to  find  you  in  better  spirits  than  when  I  saw  you  last, 
for  I  wish  to  talk  with  you  about  Charlie,  here  ;  he  is  quite 
outgrowing  your  care,  I  think.”  > 

The  poor  invalid  drooped  her  head  and  sighed,  for  she  .un¬ 
derstood  too  well  his  meaning;  while  Charlie  looked  up, 
wonderingly.  Without  appearing  to  notice  either,  the  Jesuit 
continued, 

“  You  have  proved  yourself  a  faithful  teacher,  Marguerite, 
and  Charlie  an  apt  scholar,  in  attaining  a  proficiency  far 
beyond  his  years ;  but  now  his  mind  needs  a  wider  scope, 
and  Father  Francis  will  henceforth  have  the  guidance  of  his 
untamed  spirit.” 

“  When  do  you  wish  him  to  go  ?  ”  asked  she,  faintly. 

“  He  may  as  well  go  at  once ;  it  will  relieve  you  from  a 
part  of  your  burden.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


211 


A  portion  of  her  old  spirit  returned,  as  she  replied,  with  a 
flashing  eye, 

“  Burden,  indeed  !  You  would  take  from  me  my  only  com¬ 
fort,  and  leave  me  to  solitude  and  death  !  Speak  plainly  ;  it 
needs  no  smooth  words  to  conceal  your  meaning.” 

“  Very  well,”  coolly  answered  he,  “  if  you  wish  for  plain 
words,  you  shall  have  them.  That  boy  remains  no  longer 
with  you,  but  goes  with  me  ?iow  to  his  future  abode.  So 
make  yourself  ready,  sir,  immediately.” 

“  0,  good  father  !  ”  pleaded  the  boy,  with  quivering  lip, 
“  please  don’t  take  me  from  Margery  now  !  Who  can  read  to 
her,  pray  for  her,  and  attend  to  all  her  little  wants,  when  I 
am  gone?  She  has  been  good  and  kind  to  me ;  let  me  stay 
with  her  till  she  gets  well,  and  then  I  am  ready  to  go  wherever 
you  wish.  Grant  me  just  this  one  favor,  I  beg !  ”  Charlie 
had  fallen  on  his  knees,  in  his  earnestness,  and  Marguerite 
sank  beside  him,  bathed  in  tears. 

“  Silence !  ”  thundered  Bernaldi ;  “  no  more  of  this  non¬ 
sense  !  You  have  been  with  her  too  long  already  now  gather 
what  things  you  have,  and  come  with  me.  It  is  time  you  had 
a  master.” 

“  Stay,  Marguerite,”  added  he,  as  she  rose  to  follow  Char¬ 
lie  out  of  the  room ;  “  I  have  a  few  words  for  your  ear. 
I  have  not  been  blind  or  deaf  lately,  and,  though  you  seek  to 
deceive  me,  remember,  your  infamy  shall  be  visited  on  your 
own  head.  It  is  for  this  I  remove  the  boy  from  you ;  and 
the  girl  will  soon  follow;  for,  mark  you  —  your  doom  is 
sealed  l  ” 

“  I  scorn  alike  your  threats  and  your  own  polluted  self!  ” 


212 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


exclaimed  she,  shaking  her  finger  towards  him.  “  Beware 
how  you  incense  me  !  ” 

“  Ha  !  ha  !  What  can  you  do  ?  ”  muttered  Bernaldi,  as 
Charlie  returned. 

No  word  was  spoken,  but  in  one  long,  agonizing  embrace 
Marguerite  parted  with  the  boy,  whose  pure  and  innocent 
childhood  had  awakened  the  first  throb  of  contrition  in  her 
heart,  and  made  life  sweet  to  her. 

“  It  is  right  —  it  is  just !  ”  cried  she,  as  her  aching  eyes 
gazed  longingly  at  the  last  glimpse  of  his  loved  form.  “  The 
bitterness  of  this  moment  but  speaks  to  me  of  the  anguish  and 
woe  of  that  mother’s  heart  whom  we  desolated.  0,  that  I 
could  restore  them  again  to  her  bosom  !  Then  would  I  die  in 
peace.  But  how  shall  I  endure  this  lonely  existence?  —  the 
little  voices  all  hushed  and  silent  —  (for  Myrtie  will  soon  go  ; 
he  said  it)  —  and  these  echoing  walls  only  breathing  into  my 
ear  remorse  —  remorse  —  remorse !  I  will  have  revenge  ! 
Reve?ige !  —  Ah,  yes  ;  he  shall  yet  feel  it,  and  by  my  hand  too, 
feeble  and  powerless  as  he  deems  me.  I  know  a  way  to  reach 
his  heart,  and  it  shall  be  done.  Holy  Virgin,  aid  me  in  one 
last  effort  to  expiate  my  crimes  on  the  altar  of  justice  and 
truth !  ” 


“  I  grant  him  bloody, 

Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 

Sudden,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 

That  has  a  name.”  Shakspeare. 

“  Where  are  you  going,  Charlie  ?  ”  cried  Myrtie,  gazing 
at  the  little  bundle  in  her  brother’s  hand,  as  he  emerged  from 
the  cottage  path  with  Bernaldi. 

“  I  don’t  know  !  ”  said  he,  and,  throwing  his  arms  about  her 
neck,  he  burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  weeping. 

“  Come,  no  more  scenes !  ”  said  the  priest,  drawing  him 
from  her.  “  You  make  a  perfect  baby  of  yourself.  You  ’re 
going  where  }Tou  will  soon  learn  to  be  a  man,  I  hope.” 

“  Will  you  please  to  tell  me,  good  father,”  asked  Myrtie, 
in  her  most  winning  tones,  “  what  Charlie  is  crying  so  for, 
and  what  you  are  going  to  do  with  him?” 

The  priest  looked  a  little  disconcerted  at  the  fair  questioner, 
but,  seeing  Ralph,  he  turned  away  to  give  him  some  direc¬ 
tions,  without  answering  her.  The  words  which  Charlie  then 
whispered  in  her  ear  caused  her  childish  heart  to  swell  with 
grief  and  indignation,  and  together  they  mingled  their  sobs 
and  tears,  for  this,  their  first  separation.  Charlie  was  the 
first  to  speak. 


214 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Myrtie  !  ”  whispered  he,  “  we  shall  never  play  or  study 
together  again,  and  perhaps  I  shall  not  see  your  dear  face  for 
a  long  time ;  but  promise  me  that  you  will  remember  all  I 
have  said  to  you  about  her ,  —  our  own  mother,  —  and  never 
forget  that  some  day  we  shall  go  and  find  her.  But,  for  your 
life,  you  must  not  tell  any  one,  except  Ralph.” 

“  I  shan’t  .forget  anything  that  you  have  told  me,”  said 
she,  looking  into  his  face,  with  tearful  eyes ;  “  but  what  can 
I  do  without  you,  Charlie  ?  0,  I  shall  die,  I  know  I  shall !  ” 
and  again  the  tears  burst  forth  afresh. 

“No,  darling,  you  are  a  little  girl  yet,  and  I  am  not  much 
older,  but  we  must  not  cry  nor  be  childish ;  we  must  try  to 
grow  old  as  fast  as  we  can,  so  that  we  can  learn  some  way  to 
find  out  our  dear  mother.” 

“  What ’s  all  this  whimpering  about  ?  ”  said  the  priest, 
suddenly  interrupting  thefia  ;  “  I  told  you,  just  now,  I ’d  have 
no  more  scenes  !  So,  bid  your  brother  good-by,  Myrtie,  and  go 
with  Ralph.  —  Remember  my  instructions  !  ”  added  he,  look¬ 
ing  at  the  latter,  “  and  do  everything  as  I  bid  you  !  l’ 

“Yes,  sir,  yur  ruv’rence  !  ”  answered  that  worthy  person¬ 
age,  with  an  emphatic  nod  of  the  head,  and  leading  the  little 
girl  towards  the  cottage. 

“  Now,  sir,”  said  Bernaldi,  addressing  Charlie,  as  they 
proceeded  to  the  monastery,  “  you  must  lay  aside  all  your 
foolish  whims,  for  henceforth  I  am  to  be  your  sole  master,  and 
I  shall  expect  perfect  obedience  from  you.  There,”  pointing 
to  the  dark,  grim-looking  building  before  them,  “  is  your  home 
and  you  must  never  wish  to  leave  it,  for  such  a  thing  will  not 
be  allowed.  You  are  now  to  commence  life  in  earnest,  and  I 
trust  we  shall  have  no  difficulty  with  you.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


215 


Charlie  looked  at  the  gray  walls  above  him,  at  the 
cheerless,  barren  spot,  with  its  high,  enclosure,  that  was  here¬ 
after  to  limit  his  enjoyment  of  nature,  and  his  heart  grew  old 
within  him.  He  dared  not  trust  his  lips  to  utter  a  reply  to 
his  master,  but  walked  silently  within  its  gloomy  portals,  tho 
light  of  hope  fast  dying  out  in  his  young  heart. 

After  a  few  moments’  whispered  conference  with  the  only 
occupant  of  the  room  into  which  they  were  ushered,  Bernaldi 
came  forward  with  his  companion,  and  introduced  his  protege 
to  Father  Francis,  who,  as  he  told  Charlie,  would  have  the 
special  charge  of  him  in  his  (Bernaldi’s)  absence. 

Father  Francis,  though  many  years  younger  than  Ber¬ 
naldi,  had  a  repulsive,  sinister  expression  about  his  face,  that 
caused  Charlie  to  shrink  with  aversion  from  his  proffered 
hand,  as  he  accosted  him. 

“  Beally,  my  lad,”  said  he,  noticing  the  movement,  and 
divining  at  once  its  cause,  “  you  have  some  spirit,  I  see. 
Well,  never  mind,  we  shall  understand  each  other  better,  by 
and  by.”  Then,  turning  to  Bernaldi,  who  stood  by,  with  dark¬ 
ened  brow,  he  added,  “  I  suppose  you  have  given  the  boy 
some  instructions  as  to  his  conduct  here.” 

“  No,  I  have  not,”  answered  the  priest ;  “  I  thought  it  best 
to  leave  him  to  your  excellent  guidance.  You  see,”  said  he, 
in  a  tone  not  intended  to  reach  Charlie’s  ears,  “  what  you 
have  to  deal  with,  and  need  not  hesitate  to  use  any  means 
to  curb  him.” 

“  I  see  —  I  understand,”  replied  the  prior,  turning  again  to 
Charlie. 

He,  poor  boy,  had  been  silently  contemplating  his 
strange  and  unhappy  position  during  the  short  conversa- 


216 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


tion,  and,  looking  up  ingenuously  into  the  face  of  his  new 
friend,  he  exclaimed,  “  Indeed,  sir,  I  did  not  mean  to  offend 
you !  ” 

“Very  likely,”  was  the  ungracious  answer;  “but  we 
suffer  no  apologies  to  be  made  here,  so  you  will  please 
remember  that  your  like  or  dislike  is  of  no  consequence  to  me.” 

Charlie,  thus  rudely  repulsed,  ventured  not  another  word ; 
but  his  heart  turned  longingly  to  the  little  cottage,  with  Myrtie 
and  Marguerite  to  love  him ;  and  still  more  yearningly  to  one 
who  even  then  seemed  dearer  to  him  than  aught  else,  save 
Myrtie.  Courage,  noble,  brave  boy !  the  strength  and  hope 
which  springs  up  within  thee,  at  thoughts  of  that  sacred 
name,  come  from  above,  where,  at  this  moment,  her  softly- 
breathed  prayers  are  ascending  for  thee,  her  first-born,  and 
gently  falling  like  dew  upon  thy  sinking  heart ! 

Charlie  instinctively  grasped  Bernaldi’s  hand,  as  the  latter 
rose  to  go  and  leave  him  in  this  cheerless  place;  for  even  his 
cold  face  seemed  pleasant  to  the  boy,  now  so  friendless.  But, 
secure  of  his  victim,  the  heartless  priest  had  no  longer  occa¬ 
sion  for  reserve  or  concealment,  and,  angrily  pushing  him 
away,  he  exclaimed : 

“No  more  o’  your  puling  around  me,  you  young  brat! 
I ’ve  had  enough  of  you,  I  hope.  As  I  hated  your  vile  heretic 
mother,  so  do  I  hate  you  ;  and  now  you ’ve  got  to  smart  for 
all  the  bother  you ’ve  been  to  me  !  Yes,  and  that  little 
pale-faced  wretch  of  a  sister  of  yours  has  got  to  take  it 
too,  I  reckon  !  We  ’ll  see  who ’s  master  round  here  now  !  ” 

So  saying,  he  left  the  room,  followed  by  Father  Francis. 
Then  did  that  young,  o’erburdened  heart  yield  to  its  fate,  and 
Charlie  fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


217 


IIow  sweet  and  happy  were  the  dreams  that  came  o’er  him 
then  ! —  a  fond,  loving  face,  beautiful  as  an  angel’s,  hovering 
in  earnest  tenderness  over  his  couch,  while  words  of  love, 
whose  tones  were  sweeter  than  music,  fell  upon  his  ear,  calling 
him  back  to  childhood  again.  Stretching  forth  his  hands,  he 
murmured,  “  Mamma,  dear  mamma  !  I ’m  so  tired  !  ” 

“  What  does  the  boy  mean  ?  ”  said  a  voice  near  him,  while 
more  vigorously  they  applied  restoratives  to  bring  back  his 
young  life  to  its  woe. 

“  He ’s  coming  to,  I  reckon,”  replied  another. 

“  Better  let  him  die*  while  he ’s  about  it,”  -said  a  third ; 
‘he ’ll  never  have  an  easier  time.” 

9  r  „ 

“  That  won’t  do,”  said  the  first  speaker  ;  “  he ’s  wanted  for 
something  special,  I  should  think,  from  the  charge  Father 
Francis  gave  me.” 

“  Likely  he ’s  got  money,  then,”  added  the  other. 

“  Of  course ;  or  else  he  would  n’t  be  of  any  account  here,” 
was  the  reply,  in  a  bitter  tone. 

“  Take  care !  The  walls  have  ears,  remember  l  ” 

But  the  caution  came  too  late.  The  walls  echoed  faith¬ 
fully,  and  the  poor  brother  had  to  atone  most  severely  for  his 
indiscretion. 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  their  immediate  solicitude  was 
slowly  reviving  under  their  efficacious  treatment ;  but,  as  his 
bright,  happy  dreams  vanished,  and  that  sweet  voice  gave 
place  to  the  discordant  sounds  about  him,  he  feared  to  unclose 
his  eyes,  lest  he  should  find  himself  surrounded  by  evil  spirits. 
Gradually,  however,  the  scenes  of  the  last  few  hours  came  to 
his  remembrance,  and  he  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  Ber- 
naldi’s  parting  words. 

19 


218 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Come,  rouse  up,  mj  boy  !  ”  spoke,  one,  not  unkindly,  as  he 
noticed  the  movement;  -and  Charlie  ventured  to  raise  one 
inquiring  glance  to  his  face.  What  he  saw  there  seemed  to 
inspire  confidence,  for  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  said,  plain¬ 
tively,  “  Will  you  be  my  friend,  now  I  have  n’t  any  one  else  ?  ” 
Father  Ambrose  smoothed  his  hair  gently,  and  looked  pity¬ 
ingly  into  the  dark,  earnest  eyes  raised  to  his  own,  as  he 
answered,  “  Why  do  you  say  that,  child"?  You  are  too  young 
to  be  friendless.” 

“  But  the  good  father  has  taken  me  away  from  Margery  and 
Myrtie,  the  only  ones  I  had,  and  brought  me  here  to  live,  where 
he  says  I  must  always  stay,  and  not  see  them  any  more.” 

“  Who  do  you  mean  by  the  ‘  good  father  ’  ?  ” 

“  Why,  Father  Bernaldi,  that  came  here  with  me.” 

“And  who  is  Margery  and  Myrtie?”  w 
“  Myrtie  is  my  darling  little  sister,  and  Margery  takes  care 
of  us  and  teaches  us  ;  —  that  is,  she  did ;  but  Father  Bernaldi 
says  Myrtie  is  going  somewhere  else  to  live,  too.” 

“  Humph  !  here ’s  some  more  of  Ms  tricks,  I  reckon,”  said 
the  monk,  aside. 

“What  did  you  say,  sir?”  asked  Charlie. 

“  Nothing ;  what  is  your  name,  my  boy  ?  ” 

“  Charlie.”  v  '  '  ’Wlij 

“  Charlie  what? ’ 

“  I  don’t  know,  sir.” 

“  Don’t  know  !  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Charlie  ?  ” 

“  I  know  I  had  another  name,  once';  but  it  is  so  long  ago 
that  I  have  forgotten  it,  and  no  one  about  here  knows.'*’ 

“  That  is  very  strange  !  ”  exclaimed  Ambrose,  his  interest 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


219 


in  the  boy  growing  deeper  every  moment.  “  Where  did  you 
come  from  ?  ” 

A  momentary  flush  crossed  Charlie’s  face  as  he  replied,  “  I 
don’t  know,  exactly ;  and,  if  I  did,  I  must  not  tell  you.” 

“Why  not?” 

“  Because  —  because  ”  —  Charlie  hesitated  —  “I  should  n’t 
dare  to.”  w  °  c 

The  monk  knew  very  well  why  he  dared  not  tell,  and  for¬ 
bore  to  press  him  further  ;  though  he  resolved  to  befriend  the 
boy  when  he  should  learn  his  history. 

None  who.  had  ever  known  Charles  Duncan  could  fail  to 
recognize  Charlie’s  resemblance-  to  his  father ;  but  in  him  the 
mother’s  sweetness  of  disposition  was  united  to  the  father’s 
vivacity,  and  Charlie,  now  in  his  fifteenth  year,  was  a  beau¬ 
tiful,  affectionate,  high-spirited  boy.  He  felt  keenly  Bernaldi’s 
injustice  and  cruelty  in  separating  him  from  Myrtie,  the  only 
one  he  had  to  love ;  and  while  he  dared  not  oppose  him, 
whom  he  had  been  taught  to  obey,  the  half-formed  thoughts 
and  resolves  floating  in  his  mind  for  the  last  few  years  began 
to  shape  themselves  into  one  great  purpose.  He  carefully 
studied  those  about  him,  scanned  each  face  with  trembling 
solicitude ;  but,  save  Father  Ambrose,  found  in  them  only  the 
index  to  cold,  unfeeling  hearts.  Vainly  did  he  endeavor  to 
draw  forth  one  kind  look  or  smile ;  souls  and  bodies  seemed 
alike  congealed  in  that  frigid  atmosphere,  and  his  own  long¬ 
ing  heart  returned  to  him  void,  finding  no  sympathy,  or 
humanity  even,  there.  Father  Ambrose  alone,  of  all  that 
monkish  clan,  looked  with  kindly  feelings  upon  the  friendless 
boy,  and  watched  with  increasing  interest  the  noble  spirit 
which  bore  him  manfully  through  trials  that  would  have 


/ 


220  ANNA  CLAYTON. 

caused  many  an  older  cheek  to  pale,  and  harder  hearts  to 
grow  faint.  But  days  and  weeks  passed  ere  he  could  win 
from  Charlie  mare  of  his  story  than  he  had  told  him  in  his 
first  interview ;  so  strongly  had  Bernaldi  impressed  the  boy’s 
fears  with  his  repeated  threats  and  warnings. 

One  morning,  however,  after  an  unusually  severe  penalty 
had  been  inflicted  upon  Charlie,  —  for  Father  Francis  de¬ 
lighted  in  heaping  insults  on  him,  —  he  sought  the  monk’s 
cell,  quivering  under  a  sense  of  the  indignity  and  injustice  of 
which  he  was  the  victim,  and,  throwing  himself  down,  exclaimed, 
passionately, 

“  0,  Father  Ambrose,  I  would  rather  die  than  live  in  such 
a  place  as  this !  ”  ^ 

V  M  '  « 

“  Poor  boy !  ”  replied  the  monk,  compassionately,  I 

' 

don’t  much  wonder  that  you  feel  so ;  but  be  careful  that  no 
one  hears  you  say  it  beside  me,  lest  it  should  make  matters 
worse.” 

“  Are  you,  then , really  a  good  friend  to  me?  ”  asked  Charlie, 
brightening  up  a  little. 

“  Better  than  you  are  willing  to  let  me  be,  I  fear;  else  you 
would  tell  me  more  about  yourself.” 

“  If  I  thought  it  would  be  safe,”  said  Charlie,  looking 
earnestly  into  the  face  of  the  other,  as  though  he  would  read 
his  thoughts,  “  I  should  be  so  glad  to  tell  you  all  I  know  ; 
and  then,  perhaps,  you  could  advise  me,  and  help  me  too. 
But,  if  Father  Bernaldi  should  find  it  out,  he  would  kill  me 
and  Myrtie  too,  for  he  said  so and  Charlie  lowered  his 
voice,  looking  around  fearfully. 

“  He  shall  never  know  anything  you  confide  to  me,”  said 
Ambrose,  encouragingly, “  depend  upon  that ;  and,  if  I  can  do 


V 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


221 


aught  to  make  your  life  easier  or  happier,  I  shall  rejoice 
in  it.” 

“  Thank  you,  0,  thank  you,  a  thousand  times !  ”  cried 
Charlie.  “  I  will  trust  you,  for  I  know  you  will  not  betray 


me 


i  » 


Tears,  which  had  refused  to  start  at  threats,  punishments, 
and  even  insults,  flowed  plentifully  at  these  words  of  kind¬ 
ness,  and  Charlie  wept  for  a  few  moments  unrestrained. 

“  There !  ”  said  Father  Ambrose,  gently,  “  that  will  do 
now ;  you  know  we  cannot  be  together  long,  or  it  will  be 

v  • 

noticed,  and  we  shall  be  separated  entirely.  Have  you  heard 
from  your  sister  since  you  came  here  ?  ” 

“No,”  replied  Charlie,  “  and  it  is  that  which  grieves  me 
most  now.  I  have  asked  Father  Bernaldi,  but  he  will  tell 
me  nothing  about  her,  only  that  I  am  not  to  see  her  again.” 

“  I  don’t  know  about  that,”  muttered  the  monk ;  “  others 
can  plan  as  well  as  he.  Where  do  you  say  she  is,  or  was  ?  ” 

“  In  the  little  cottage  at  the  end  of  the  garden ;  but  Ralph 
could  tell  you  where  she  is  now.  0,  if  I  could  see  Myrtie !  ” 
and  Charlie’s  eyes  sparkled  with  the  thought. 

“  Well,  don’t  get  too  much  excited  about  it  —  we ’ll  see. 
Who  is  Ralph  ?  ” 

“  Why,  he ’s  the  gardener,  and  a  dear,  good  fellow  too ; 
he  ’ll  do  anything  Myrtie  asks  him  to.  I  should  n’t  wonder  if 
he  has  tried  to  find  me  before  now.” 

“No  doubt,”  said  the  monk.  '“  Now,  if  you  will  go  and 
keep  perfectly  quiet,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  to  relieve  your 
first  trouble ;  then,  perhaps,  you  will  find  me  to  be  a  friend 
you  can  trust,  and  will  open  your  heart  freely  to  me.” 

What  cared  Charlie  now  for  cold  words,  or  colder  looks,  as 
19* 


222 


ANNA  C  LAYTON. 


he  went,  with  a  light  heart,  about  his  daily  task.  Would  he 
not  soon,  perhaps  this  very  day,  see  the  bright,  sunny  face  that 
had  ever  been  near  his,  and  forget  all  his  sorrows  in  her  sweet, 
loving  caresses?  His  heart  began  to  grow  young  again,  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  that  forlorn  abode,  a  smile  lighted  up  his 
gad,  boyish  face. 


* 


% 


CHAPTER,  XXIII. 

4 

“  Farewell  !  God  knows  when  wo  shall  meet  again  ; 

I  have  a  faint,  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 

That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life.”. 

Shakspeare. 

I  I 

4  •'  * 

“Tins  here ’s  bad  bisness,  now  I  tell  ye,”  growled  Ralph, 
as  he  entered  Marguerite’s  room,  hastily,  after  Charlie’s  de¬ 
parture.  But  she  heeded  him  not,  as  she  sat  there  with  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands,  in  an  attitude  of  despair.  Ralph 
coughed  and  hemmed  several  times,  impatiently,  and  at  length 
ventured  to  touch  her  gently  on  the  shoulder ;  yet  she  moved 
not. 

“  Holloa,  there,  Ellen !  ”  he  screamed,  opening  the  door, 
“  come  quick,  —  your  mistress  has  fainted  !  ” 

“  She  an’t  nc  mistress  o’  mine,  I ’d  have  you  to  know,” 
muttered  the  girl,  as  she  dashed  some  cold  water  into  Mar¬ 
guerite’s  face,  and  pulled  her  rather  rudely  on  the  sofa. 

“  Take  care,”  said  he,  “  or  I  ’ll  report  ye  to  his  ruv’- 
rence.” 

“  Much  he  cares  for  her  now  !  ”  replied  she,  sneeringly,  for 
she  had  of  late  been  an  eaves-dropper  during  Bernaldi’s  visits, 
and  knew  pretty  well  how  matters  stood.  “  There,  she ’s 


224 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


coming  to  now,  so  I  ’ll  leave  her  to  you,  ’cause  I ’ve  got 
plenty  o’  work  to  do,  without  fussing  over  her  !  ”  and  she 
slammed  the  door  after  her,  with  no  slight  noise. 

“  Wal,  now,  if  that  an’t  too  bad  !  ”  said  Ralph  to  himself ; 
“  this  poor  thing  ’ll  die,  and  nobody  to  care  for  her,  neither.” 

“  Is  that  you,  Ralph  ?  ”  sighed  Marguerite,  unclosing  her 
eyes,  and  looking  around  the  room. 

“Yes,  it ’s  me,  and  nobody  else;  do  you  feel  better  now?  ” 

“  I  believe  so ;  what  has  happened?  0, 1  remember  now,” 
and  she  placed  her  hand  over  her  heart  to  still  its  throbbings. 

‘  As  I  was  say  in’  jest  now,  it ’s  mighty  bad  bisness,  in  my 
’pinion,  this  is,”  said  Ralph,  shaking  his  head. 

“  It ’s  dreadful,  Ralph  ;  but  think  how  their  poor  mother 
must  have  suffered  when  we  stole  them  away  from  her !  ” 

“  0,  wal,”  said  he,  soothingly,  “  she  was  a  heretic,  you 
know,  and  it  was  for  their  good  you  took  ’em  away.” 

“  No,  Ralph,  I  cannot  claim  a  good  motive  for  that  wicked 
deed,”  said  she,  earnestly,  “  though  the  Holy  Mother  knows 
how  sincerely  and  bitterly  I  have  repented  it.” 

“  Is  Charlie  goin’  to  stay  long  in  the  ‘  St.  Augustine  ’  ?  ” 
asked  Ralph. 

“  I  suppose  so ;  for  Father  Bernaldi  said  that  henceforth 
he  would  be  under  the  care  of  Father  Francis.” 

4  **  ■ 

“  Then  I  can  see  him  sumtimes,”  said  Ralph ;  “  but  my 
putty  birdie  —  where  ’ll  she  go?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know ;  Father  Bernaldi  has  n’t  told  me  yet.” 

“Seems  to  me  I  shan’t  stan’  it  when  she’s  gone;”  and 
Ralph’s  voice  trembled.  “  Why  don’t  he  let  you  keep  her  a 
spell  longer?  She’s  too  young  to  go  among  them  old  stiff 


nuns. 


ANNA  CLAYTON 


225 


“  He ’s  afraid  I  shall  spoil  her,  as  he  says  I  have  Charlie,” 
replied  Marguerite,  with  a  curling  lip. 

“There  an’t  a  better -boy  nowheres,”  exclaimed  Ralph, 
energetically;  “  but  they  ’ll  break  his  spirit,  I ’m  afeared.” 

“  That ’s  what  they  intend  to  do,  Ralph,  and  Myrtie’s  too. 
I  know  but  too  well  what  a  convent  life  is  ;  and,  were  it  not 
that  I  have  other  hopes  for  her,  I  would  sooner  see  her  die 
than  go  there.  Ay,  ’t  would  be  a  kindness  even  to  take  her 
life.” 

Ralph  started  to  his  feet ;  he  had  never  seen  Marguerite  so 
excited  before,  and  he  feared  she  was  losing  her  senses. 

“  Ralph  !  ”  said  she,  solemnly,  “  my  life  is  almost  ended, 
and  there  are  none  to  care  how  soon  it  may  be ;  but,  before  I 
die,  I  have  a  great  work  to  perform.  This  very  hour,  at  the 
foot  of  that  cross,  I  have  vowed  to  accomplish  it ;  and  you, 
Ralph,  are  the  only  one  that  can  aid  me.  Promise  me,  for 
Myrtie’s  sake,  that  you  will.” 

“  I 'd  a-most  give  up  my  soul  for  Myrtie  now,”  said  he. 

“  I  know  you  would,  Ralph ;  and  your  devotion  to  her  has 
strengthened  my  purpose.  But  I ’m  too  weak  to  talk  any 
more  now ;  don’t,  for  'your  life,  repeat  anything  I ’ve  said  to 
you.  Where ’s  Myrtie*?  ” 

“  She ’s  here,”  he  replied,  looking  out  of  the  window ; 
“but  her  poor  little  heart  is  broken  partin’  with  Charlie ;  and 
when  she  comes  to  go  herself  I ’m  thinking ’t  will  ’bout  kill 
her.” 

lie  went  out  as  he  spoke ;  and,  sitting  on  the  door-step,  — 
the  very  one  where  he  had  first  taken  the  little  girl  to  his 
arms  and  heart,  —  wept  such  tears  as  were  never  before 
wrung  from  his  heart.  He  knew,  though  he  dared  not  tell 


226 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Marguerite,  in  her  excited  state,  that  the  next  day  his  dar¬ 
ling  pet,  whom  he  had  watched  so  tenderly,  would  go  among 
strangers  ;  and  what  Marguerite  had  just  said  of  a  convent 
life  sank  deeply  into  his  heart,  and  made  him  tremble  still 
more  for  the  fate  of  his  treasure.  *  ^  '  v 

“  What  makes  you  so  sad,  Ralph  ?  ”  asked  Myrtie,  coming 
to  him,  her  own  eyes  red  with  weeping  for  the  loss  of  her 
playmate.  -  * 

“  0  dear,  dear!  I  can’t  stan’  this,  no  way!”  burst  from  him, 

as  he  rushed  furiously  along  the  path  to  the  chateau.  Then 

* 

turning,  he  ran  back,  and  caught  the  wondering  girl  in  his 
arms,  and  hugged  her  convulsively  to  his  bursting  heart. 

“  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Ralph  ?  ”  cried- she. 

“Matter!  darlin’,  blessed  birdie!  Why,  your  old  Ralph’s 
heart  ’&  a  breakin’,  that’s  all  t •”  groaned  he. 

“  What  for  —  because  Charlie ’s  gone  ?  ” 

“  No,  no,  not  that,  though  I  feel  bad  enough  about  it ;  or 
should,  if ’t  wan’t  for  sumthin’  else.” 

“  Do  tell  me  what  it  is,  Ralph  ;  you  know  I  shall  pity 
you.” 

“  It ’s  yourself,  birdie,  that’s  to  be  pitied!  What’ll  you 
do  without  Margery  to  take  care  of  ye,  and  old  Ralph  to  tend 
ye,  and  worship  the  very  ground  ye  tread  on  ?  ” 

“  Are  you  going  away  to  leave  me  ?  ”  she  asked,  plain¬ 
tively.  *  -  • 

“  No,  duckey,  I  an’t ;  but  you ’ve  got  to  go,  and  leave  my 
old  heart  to  break !  ”  And  Myrtie  felt  the  strong  frame  be¬ 
neath  her  shake.  *  > 

Where  am  I  going,  Ralph  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know,  yet ;  but  his  ruv’rence  said  you  would 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


227 


go  to-morrow.  There,  it ’s  all  out,  now !  ”  And  tears  again 
rolled  down  his  sunburnt  cheek. 

“  That ’s  what  Charlie  meant  when  he  told  me  to  keep  up 
good  courage;”  said  Myrtie,  thoughtfully ;  “  and  he  said,  too, 
I  must  n’t  be  childish  about  it;  but  grow  old  fast,  so  that  we 
could  some  day  find  out  our  dear  mother !  0,  Ralph,  don’t 

feel  so  bad ;  ’cause  you  will  go  with  us,  and  then  we  shall 
always  live  together:1’ 

He  could  not  bear  to  sadden  that  young  heart ;  so  he  re¬ 
plied,  vWal,  duckey,  these  old  knees  shall  bend  every  day 
and  every  night  for  ye,  and  it  ’ll  be  mighty  hard  if  suthin’ 
don’t  come  of  it,  I  tell  ye.  But  what  can  I  do  without  you, 
birdie  ?  ”  -»  -  "  - 

“  0,  you  will  come  and  see  me,  and  then  we  will  have  such 

a  nice  time  !  and  may  be  I  can  come  here,  too.” 

*  •  « 

“  Poor  little  thing  !  Margery  says  they  won’t  let  me.  But 
I  know  what  I  ’ll  do,”  said  Ralph,  brightening  up  ;  “I  ’ll  see 
where  you  go,  and  maybe  they’d  hire  me  to  work  where  I 
can  catch  a  sight  of  your  sweet  face  sumtimes,  jest  enough  to 
keep  the  heart  in  me*” 

“  But  poor  Margery,  Ralph  !  How  could  you  leave  her  all 
alone?”  « 

“  0  dear,  dear !  ”  replied  he,  “  I  did  n’t  think  o’  her  !  Wal, 
what  shall  I  do,  any  way  ?  ”  And  again  the  cloud  rested 
heavily  upon  his  spirit. 

“  Stay  here' with  dear  Margery,”  answered  the  thoughtful 
child,  “  and  ask  Father  Bernaldi  to  let  you  come  and  see  me, 
sometimes.  It  won’t  be  long,  Ralph;  for  I  mean  to  be  so  very 
good,  the  Blessed  Virgin  will  answer  our  prayers —  Charlie’s 
and  mine.” 


228 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Ralph  walked  home  in  a  state  of  bewilderment.  He  seemed 
beset  with  troubles  from  which  he  could  not  extricate  himself. 
He  had  promised  to  stay  with  Margery,  and  aid  her  in  some¬ 
thing,  he  knew  not  what.  And  here  was  his  birdie,  the  light 
of  his  eye,  going  he  knew  not  where,  with  none  to  care  for 
her  as  he  had  done.  Yainly  did  the  ragged  slouched  hat 
perform  repeated  precipitate  journeys  from  his  head  to  the 
ground,  while  with  his  fingers’  ends  he  sought  to  scratch  up 
some  new  idea  from  his  cranium.  In  vain  did  he  strike  more 
vigorously  his  spade  into  the  earth,  as  though  &  mine  of 
knowledge  might  be  hidden  beneath.  The  mystery  could  not 
be  solved ;  and  the  simple-hearted  gardener  was  fairly  lost  in 
the  darkness  and  sorrow  with  which  he  was  surrounded.  Sud¬ 
denly,  however,  his  face  brightened;  and,  dropping  his  spade, 
he  ran  with  all  speed  up  the  garden-walk  to  the  chateau,  and 
was  soon  knocking  humbly  at  the  door  of  the  library. 

“  Come  in,”  cried  the  bishop’s  voice.  And  Ralph  stood 
trembling  in  the  presence  of  the  most  holy  father,  twirling 
nervously  the  old  hat  around  his  fingers. 

“  Why,  Ralph !  ”  said  the  bishop,  looking  somewhat  aston- 

f  s 

ished  at  his  appearance,  “  what  brings  you  here,  now  ?  ” 

“  If  it  please  yur  great  ruv’rence,”  answered  the  gardener, 
“  I ’m  troubled  in  here !  ”  laying  his  broad  hand  on  his  breast. 

“Ah,  Ralph  —  what’s  the  matter?  Haven’t  you  con¬ 
fessed,  lately  ?  ” 

“  Most  holy  father,  I  have ;  but  that  don’t  reach  it.  1 
must  go  away  from  here ;  and  I  want  your  blessin’  and  a 
camcter,”  said  Ralph,  growing  bolder. 

“  My  blessing  and  a  character !  ”  replied  the  bishop. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


229 


“  Surely,  you  are  out  of  your  senses,  Ralph.  Why  do  you 
wish  to  leave  here  ?  ” 

“  Yur  great  ruv’rence  will  pardon  what  I  shall  say  in  answer 
to  your  question.” 

“  Certainly,  Ralph  —  say  on.” 

“  Wal,  then,  for  more  ’n  ten  years  I ’ve  worked  faithful, 
here  ;  nobody  can  say  aught  agin  that.” 

“  No,  Ralph ;  you  have  been  an  honest,  faithful  fellow,  I 
believe>;  but  say  on.”. 

“  The  heart  is  clean  gone  out  o’  me !  ”  said  Ralph,  while 
his  voice  shook  with  emotion,  “  and  I  can ’t  do  no  more,  no 
how.”  < 

“  How ’s  that  ?  What  do  you  mean,  Ralph  ?  ”  asked  the 
bishop,  more  and  more  puzzled. 

“  Why,  you  see,  holy  sir,  when  the  light  that ’s  kept  these 
old  eyes  from  fadin’,  and  this  lone  heart  from  sinkin’,  is  taken 
away,  I  shan’t  be  good  for  nothin’,  sir.” 

“  Speak  plainer,  Ralph  ;  I  don’t  understand  you,”  said  the 
other;  who,  however,  did  begin  to  divine  the  cause  of  his 
trouble,  knowing  the  extraordinary  affection  existing  between 

«  w 

the  rough  being  before  him  and  the  beautiful  child. 

“  Wal,  then,  great  ruv’rence,  to  be  plain-spoken,  I  can’t 
live  here,  no  how,  after  my  little  birdie ’s  gone.” 

“  And  why  not,  Ralph?”  queried  the  bishop,  to  draw  him 
out. 

“  Why  not,  indeed  !  Should  n’t  I  every  mornin’  listen  for 
the  song  of  my  lark,  and  hear  nothin’  but  the  pitiful  notes  o’ 
the  birds  in  the  woods,  yonder?  Shouldn’t  I  every  minit 
hear  the  pattin’  o’  little  feet  cornin’  to  me,  and  see  nothin’ 
but  old  Towser  a-walkin’  round  the  garden  ?  Should  n’t  I 

20 


230 


ANNA  CLAYTON 


keep  watchin’  the  door  o’  that  arbor  all  day  long  to. see  the 
little  face,  brighter ’n  the  sun  to  these  eyes,  come  to  cheer 

me,  and  watch  the  flowers  grow  ?  Should  n’t  I - ” 

“  Stop,  stop,  Ralph,  that’ll  do !  ”  cried  the  bishop,  laugh¬ 
ing;  “you  are  getting  so  -  enthusiastic,  you  forget  yourself. 
No  doubt  you  love  this  little  ‘birdie,’  as  you  call  her,  and  so 
do  we  —  no  one  could  help  it.  But  that  only  makes  us  the 
more  anxious  to  do  everything  for  her  good.  You  wouldn’t 
want  her  to  grow  up  in  ignorance.”  *  ^ 

“  She  ignorant  —  my  little  birdie.!  You  may  call  Ralph 
that  —  but  not  her — no,  never  !  ” 

“You  forget  yourself,  Ralph!”  said  the  bishop,  more 
sternly.  “It  is  not  for  you  to  judge,  but  we,  who  know  what 
is  right.  I  shall  expect  you  will,  therefore,  say  no  more 
about  it,  but  go  to  your  work  —  foolish  fellow  that  you  are.” 

Ralph  made  a  hasty  retreat  to  his  own  quarters,  where  he 
sat  down,  more  troubled  than  ever.  He  thought  of  the  cruel 
separation  of  the  brother  and  sister;  of  the  hard  life  the 
former  must  lead  in  the  austere  monastery  to  which  he  had 
gone ;  of  the  horrors  of  a  convent  life,  as  hinted  at  by  Mar¬ 
guerite,  which  his  “  birdie”  must  now  meet.  And,  it  must  be 
confessed,  his  respect  for  all  “  ruv’rences  ”  decreased  in  the 

same  proportion  as  his  anxiety  and  grief  for  the  children 

* 

increased  ;  for  wrere  they  not  really  the  cause  of  all  this 
trouble  ? 

He  was  in  this  state  of  mind  when  Bernaldi  returned  from 
the  cloistei*  whither  he  had  conducted  Charlie,  and,  in  passing 
through  the  garden,  saw  Ralph  in  such  deep  meditation. 

“  How  now,  Ralph?”  said  he,  accosting  him ;  “what’s  the 
matter  with  you  ?  ” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


231 


“  Nothin’ !  ”  answered  the  gardener,  gruffly ;  “  only  I  an’t 
a-goin’  to  stay  here  another  day,  — *>  darn  me  if  I  do  !  ” 

“  Ha  !  ha  !  that  ’§  pretty  well,  after  ten  years’  such  service 
as  you  have  had  here  !  What ’s  the  trouble,  now?  ” 

“  I  say  I  can’t  stan’  it  no  how  nor  no  way,  another  day 
after  my  little  birdie’s  gone  —  that's  the  trouble.” 

“  0  ho-!  that ’s  the  trouble,  is  it  ?  But  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it  ?  You  can ’t  see  her  any  more  if  you  go  away 
from  here  than  if  you  stay.” 

“  Wal,  I  shan’t  keej)  thinkin’  all  the  time  she ’s  round  me, 
as  I  should  here.”  . 

“  What  if  I  should  make  a  proposition  to  you,  Balph  ?  ” 
said  Bernaldi,  who,  for  various  reasons,  could  not  part  with 
this  man,  —  “  what  if  I  should  say,  if  you  ’ll  do  so  and  so,  you 
may  go  and  see  Myrtie  very  often?” 

“  0,  yur  ruv’fence,  yur  blessed  ruv’rence !  ”  cried  Balph, 
falling  on  his  knees,  “  that ’s  all  I ’d  ask  to  be  yur  servant 
forever.  I ’d  walk  on  my  hands  and  knees  over  burnin’  pitch- 
forks  ;  I ’d - ”  . 

“  That  ’ll  do,”  said  the  priest ;  “  I  shall  not  require  any 
such  service ;  so  you  need  not  spend  your  breath  talking 
about  it.  But  when  I  want  you  to  do  certain  things  for  me, 
which  I  will  tell  you  some  time,  you  must  not  flinch  nor  draw 
back.  Will  you  remember  ?  ” 

“  Yur  ruv’rence,  I  will  remember  everything,  so  that  I  can 
see  my  birdie  sometimes,  I  tell  ye.” 

Such  a  load  as  was  lifted  from  Balph ’s  heart !  Now  he 
can  know  what  treatment  Myrtie  meets  with.  Is  she  happy? 
does  her  heart  still  cling  to  him,  her  best  friend?  and  a 
thousand  other  things,  which  only  his  noble  heart  could  have 


232 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


suggested.  How  earnestly  did  he  watch  for  the  moment  when 
he  could  with  safety  run  and  communicate  his  happiness  to  the 
cottage  inmates ;  and,  as  soon  as  that  moment  arrived,  seeing 
Bernaldi  leave  the  chateau,  how  he  bounded  through  the  path, 
like  one  almost  crazed,  and  rushed  into  their  quiet  sitting- 
room,  catching  Myrtie  up  in  his  arms,  and  almost  smothering 
her  in  his  joy  ! 

“  0  dear,  dear  !  ”  <jried  he,  “  I  can’t  stan’  this  no  better  ’n 
I  could  afore!  Only  think,  birdie,  yur  old  Ralph  goin’  to 
see  ye  most  every  day  !  ” 

“  What ’s  that  you  say,  Ralph  ?  ”  exclaimed  Marguerite, 
with  eager  joy. 

“I  say  what  I  mean,”  answered  the  delighted  fellow;  “  I ’m 
going  to  see  Myrtie  very  often ;  that ’s  what  his  ruv’rence 
said.  0,  an’t  you  glad,  birdie  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  indeed,  Ralph,”  cried  Myrtie,  hugging  him  more 

> 

closely.  .  5 

“  But,  Ralph,”  said  Marguerite,  who  could  scarce  believe 
her  ears,  “  explain  yourself ;  you  cannot  see  Myrtie,  if  she 
goes  into  a  convent.”  -  x 

“What,  not  if  his  ruv’rence  gives  me  leave?”  asked  he, 
with  a  knowing  look.  ,  ,  > 

“Yes;  but  —  ” 

“  Yes,  but  nothin’ ;  I  tell  ye  he  says  I  may.  Now,  an’t  ye 
glad,  Margery  ?  ’cause  ye  see  you  ’ll  know  all  about  Myrtie ;” 
and  he  fairly  capered  —  the  huge  fellow  —  round  the  room. 

“  Grlad,  Ralph  !  you  can  never  know  how  thankful  I  am  for 
such  a  hope :  ”  exclaimed  Marguerite,  who  saw  how  much 
this  would  aid  her  in  carrying  out  her  plans. 

“  Now,  dear  Margery,  and  you,  too,  dear  Ralph,  won’t  feel 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


238 


so  bad  about  my  going,  will  you  ?  ”  said  Myrtie,  thinking  only 
of  those  she  loved  best ;  “  but  dear,  dear  Charlie  —  shan’t  I 

ever  see  him  again?  ”  and  tears  forced  themselves  down  her 

•  ■* 

cheeks,  despite  her  elforts  to  prevent  them. 

“  Yes,  you  shall,  birdie,  if  I  can  manage  it;  so,  don’t  cry 
any  more  about  it.”  Ralph  could  see  no  trouble  in  anything 
now. 

“  Poor  Charlie !  ”  sighed  Marguerite  ;  “  how  his  noble 
spirit  will  break,  and  his  affectionate  heart  be  crushed,  among 
those  heartless  souls  !  But  he  shall  yet  be  saved,”  added  she, 
energetically;  “I  swear  it  before  this  cross,  and  you,  Ralph  — 
they  shall  both  be  saved !  ” 

“  That ’s  good,  I  tell  ye,”  joined  in  Ralph ;  “  I  wish  I 
could  help  ye.” 

“  And  so  you  will ;  for,  unless  you  are  faithful,  it  cannot  be 
done/”  *- 

“  Have  n’t  I  allers  been,  since  I  knew  this  birdie  ?  ” 

“Yes,  Ralph,  and  you  will  live  to  see  your  reward,  while 
I  must  soon  sink,  and  justly  too,  into  an  unnoticed  and  un¬ 
honored  grave.  But,  0  Blessed  Virgin,  spare  me  till  justice 
is  avenged !  ” 

Myrtie  did  not  comprehend  all  this,  but  she  saw  that  Mar¬ 
gery  was  unhappy,  and,  going  gently  to  her  side,  she  laid  her 
sweet  face,  still  wet  with  tears,  upon  the  nurse’s  shoulder,  ex¬ 
claiming,  “  Dear,  dear  Margery,  dop’t  be  so  sad !  I  am  sure 
the  good  father  will  let  me  come  to  see  you,  now  you  ’re  so 
sick  —  and  I  love  you  so  much,  and  Charlie’s  gone  too.” 

“  You  don’t  know  him  as  well  as  I,  dear  child,”  replied 
Margery ;  “I  shall  never  hope  to  see  my  darling  Myrtie 
again !  ”  and  she  pressed  her  convulsively  to  her  heart. 

20* 


234 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


How  quickly  sped  away  the  sorrowful  moments  —  the  last 
which  united  sinful,  fallen  nature  to  the  guileless  innocence 
of  childhood !  Marguerite  found  herself  alone,  she  scarcely 
knew  when  or  how ;  but  that  she  was  bereft,  forsaken,  did  not 
every  pulsation  of  her  heart  tell  her  ?  Now  has  her  expia¬ 
tion  commenced ;  and,  but  for  the  one  burning  desire  to  accom¬ 
plish  it  to  the  utmost,  she  must  have  inevitably  sank  beneath 
consuming  disease  and  grief.  Faint  not,  erring  woman !  It 
may  yet  be  that  thy  contrition  will  spread  for  thee  a  downy 

bed,  on  which  to  yield  thy  last  breath  in  peace. 

/-  >  v  ' 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

“  Now  warm  in  love,  now  withering  in  thy  bloom, 

Lost  in  a  convent’s  solitary  gloom.” 

Pope. 

^  f 

Nothing  could  be  sweeter  or  more  winning  than  the  modest, 
humble  manner  in  which  Myrtie  met  the  imperious  demands 

4  %  i 

of  the  lady  superior  of  the  convent  where  Bernaldi  placed 
her.  She  had  been  there  scarcely  a  month,  and  yet,  despite 
her  youth,  she  had  been  subjected  to  stinging  sarcasm,  insult, 
and  even  cruelty,  “  to  break  her  in  at  once,”  as  that  holy 
mother  said.  But  her  brave  little  heart  withstood  all  these 

v* 

trials,  and,  ever  repeating  to  herself  Charlie’s  last  injunction, 
the  present  was  overlooked,  or  patiently  borne,  in  her  bright 
hopes  for  the  future.  But  not  long  could  the  loving  heart 
of  this  fair,  sunny  little  creature  endure  the  chilling  blasts 
around  her.  Courage  and  hope  must  alike  yield  to  such  ad¬ 
verse  influences,  unless,  perchance,  some  kindred  spirit  breathes 
into  her  own  its  warm,  gushing  affection,  and  sustains  through 
this  terrible  ordeal  her  untried,  soul. 

Thrice  had  Ralph,  true  to  his  promise  and  himself,  begged 
for  admission  within  those  barred  gates ;  the  inexorable  por¬ 
tress  had  ever  some  ready  excuse  for  disappointing  him. 


236 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Sometimes  Myrtie  had  “  gone  for  a  walk,”  or  she  was  “  out 
riding  with  the  ladies,”  or  “  busy  with  her  studies,  and  could 
not  be  interrupted ;  ”  till  at  length,  in  his  despair,  the  poor 
fellow  complained  to  his  “  ruv’rence,”  and  besought  his  inter¬ 
ference.  Bernaldi,  finding  he  could  no  longer  be  put  off,  ac¬ 
companied  him  to  the  convent,  and,  placing  Myrtie  in  his  arms, 
told  him  to  say  all  he  wished  quick,  as  the  child  must  not  be 
long  delayed  fronpdier  tasks. 

0,  what  a  world  of  meaning  was  there  in  the  wild  cry  of 
mingled  joy  and  grief  with  which  she  clasped  her  arms  around 
that  faithful  neck !  Naught  but  tears,  which  could  not  be 
restrained,  spoke  to  the  true  heart  beneath ;  and  yet  that  heart, 
in  bursting  agony,  drank  in  the  tale  of  w be. 

“  My  birdie,  my  poor,  darling'  birdie !  ”  at;  length  he  ex¬ 
claimed  ;  “  they  ’re  killing  you,  —  I  know  they  are  !  ” 

Bernaldi  stood  by  with  lowering  brow,  and  Myrtie  dared 
only  murmur,  in  reply, 

“  No  they  are  not,  but  I ’m  so  lonely  without  you,  Ralph  !  ” 
“  It  is  n’t  my  fault,  duckey,  that  I  have  n’t  seen  you  before. 
That  cursed  old  hag  at  the  gate  would  n’t  —  ” 

“  Stop !  ”  thundered  Bernaldi,  in  a  voice  which  caused  them 
both  to  start;  “  is  this  the  way  you  would  teach  the  child  to 
regard  those  around  her  ?  You  will  conduct  yourself  very 
differently,  sir,  or  your  interviews  with  her  are  at  an  end.” 

“  I  did  n’t  mean  nothin’,  yur  ruv’rencej”  cried  Ralph,  in- 
timidated  at  such  a  threat ;  “  but  her  little  pale  face  and  sad 
looks  make  me  almost  crazy.” 

“You  did  not  come  here  to  talk  about  her  looks,”  replied 
Bernaldi,  tartly,  “  but  to  encourage  her  to  be  a  good  girl, 
which  I  am  afraid  she  has  n’t  been  since  she  came.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


237 


Ralph  choked  down  the  indignant  reply  which  sprung  to 
his  lips  at  this  insinuation,  lest  his  “  ruv’rence  ”  should  carry 
his  threat  into  execution,  and  forbid  his  coming  again  to  see 
Myrtie.  So,  concealing  his  emotion  as  much  as  possible,  he 
whispered  in  Myrtie’s  ear, 

*  '  •+  fj 

“  Keep  up  good  courage,  birdie ;  you  shan’t  stay  here 
always.” 

The  little  blue  eyes  answered  him  most  expressively,  as 
they  beamed  with  thankful,  hopeful  love  into  his  own.  But 
Myrtie  was  learning  to  be  discreet,  and,  with  the  dark  eyes  of 
the  priest  bent  frowningly  upon  them,  how  could  she  pour  her 
sorrows  where  most  of  all  she  longed  to  do  ? 

So  in  silent  embrace  they  sat,  and  save  only  in  the  spirit’s 
deep  utterance  did  each  to  the  other  tell  its  grief. 

“  Come,”,  said  the  priest,  growing  impatient,  “  I  have  no 
more  time  to  fool  in  this  way.  Bid  your  birdie,  as  you  call 
her,  good-by,  Ralph,  and  we  must  return  to  the  chateau ;  it ’s 
getting  late.” 

One  convulsive  clasp  around  his  neck,  and  a  kiss  in  which 

t  «  * 

the  bitterness  of  that  child-heart  was  concentrated,  and  Myr¬ 
tie  sank  to  the  floor,  cowering  beneath  her  dress,  that  she 
might  not  see  him  go.  ’T  was  strange  to  see  that  rough,  un¬ 
couth  being,  as  he  walked  slowly  away  (for  Bernaldi  had  left 
him  when  he  got  him  outside  of  the  walls),  turn,  and,  stretch- 

V  * 

ing  forth  his  brawny  arms,  cry  aloud,  in  the  anguish  of  his 
spirit,  till,  weakened  and  overcome  by  grief,  he  would  sit  by 
the  wayside,  gazing  with  aching  eyes  at  the  walls  which  im¬ 
prisoned  his  “  birdie.” 

How  long  Myrtie  had  been  crouching  upon  the  floor  of  the 
desolate  room  she  knew  not,  when  she  started  to  her  feet  with 


238 


ANNA  C  LAYTON . 


surprise,  as  a  gentle  hand  was  laid  upon  her  head,  and  a  soft, 
pleasant  voice  asked,  in  accents  of  sympathy, 

“  What  is  it  grieves  this  little  girl  so? ” 

She  looked  up  into  the  sweet  face  of  the  strange  lady,  and, 
clasping  her  hands,  said,  earnestly, 

“  0,  he  ’ s  gone,  and  now  I  have  n’t  any  friends !  ” 

“  Who  is  he  ?  ” 

“  Why(,  Ralph,  my  only  friend, —that  is,  except  Margery 
and  Charlie.” 

« 

“Poor  child!  ”  said  the  lady,  pityingly;  “well  do  I  know 
the  desolation  this  place  brings  to  the  heart.  I  will  not  ask 
you  any  more  questions  now  ”  (for  Myrtie  was  sobbing  on  her 
breast),  “  but  after  vespers,  to-morrow,  come  to  Sister  Agnes’ 

t  N 

cell,  and  we  will  talk  together.” 

“  Are  you  Sister  Agnes  ?  ”  asked  Myrtie,  looking  at  the 
serge  gown  and  cap  of  the  nun. 

“  That  is  my  name  here,”  sighed  the  other,  thinking  of  the 
proud  title  by  which  the  world  had  known  her. 

“  0,  I ’m  so  glad  to  find  somebody  here  that  I  can  love !  ” 
exclaimed  the  warm-hearted  little  girl ;  “  for  I  know  I  shall 
love  you,  Sister  Agnes.” 

“  So  you  shall,  my  sweet  child  ;  and  Sister  Agnes  will  love 
you,  too,  very  much.  But  be  careful  not  to  say  anything 
about  it  before  the  others,  or  they  may  prevent  my  seeing 
you.  Go,  now,  and  keep  up  a  good  heart  till  to-morrow,” 
added  the  nun,  affectionately  kissing  her. 

Childhood’s  drooping  heart  revived  a  little  in  this  brief 
sunshine,  and  Myrtie  went  to  her  tasks  reassured. 

At  the  same  time,  in  her  private  parlor,  sat  Bernaldi,  in 
deep,  earnest  conversation  with  the  lady  superior. 


239 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

“  I  don’t  see  how  we  can  prevent  their  meeting  sometimes ; 
it ’s  the  only  hold  I ’ve  got  on  him  now,  and  a  strong  one  it 
is,  too ;  he  ’ll  do  anything,  no  matter  what,  foi  the  sake  of 
seeing  her.” 

“  I  shall  look  out  that  it  happens  but  seldom,  I  promise 
you,”  replied  the  mother ;  “  for  she ’s  hard  enough  now  to 
subdue,  and  he  ’ll  only  make  her  "Worse — the  beastly  fellow !  ” 

“We  can  manage  it  better, by  and  by,”  continued  the  priest ; 
“  but  for  the  present  it  will  be  necessary  to  humor  him  a  little, 
or  he  may  flinch  from  the  business.” 

“Well,  it  must  be  as  you  say,  I  suppose.” 

“  And,  another  thing,”  added  Bernaldi,  gently ;  “  I  would 
recommend  you  to  be  rather  lenient  towards  her  till  we  get 
through  over  there ;  it  won’t  do  to  undertake  too  much  at 
once,  you  know.” 

“I’m  all  obedience, holy  father!”  replied  she, sarcastically. 
“  The  child  shall  be  trotted  on  my  knee  every  day,  if  you  say 
so!”  .  *-r 

“  Come,  come,  mother !  don’t  be  vexed.  You  shall  have 
your  own  way  with  her  very  soon ;  you  know,  as  well  as  I, 
what  my  object  is.” 

“  Well,  let  her  rest,”  said  the  lady ;  “  but  what  about  Sis¬ 
ter  Agnes?  She’s  as  incorrigible  as  ever,  though  I  have  tried 
every  torture  you  suggested,  till  I  thought  she  would  die  under 
my  hands.” 

“May  the  devil  take  her !”  muttered  Bernaldi,  his  brow 
darkening  at  the  obstinacy  of  the  poor  nun.  “We  must 
change  our  course  towards  her.  Severity  won’t  move  her ; 
we  ’ll  try  what  flattery,  and  pretended  kindness  ’ll  do.” 

“  I  ’ll  leave  that  game  for  you  to  play  !  ”  said  the  haughty 


240 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


woman  ;  “  I  Ve  no  fancy  for  such  things.  It ’s  my  opinion, 
though,  that  nothing  we  can  do  will  change  her  determina¬ 
tion.”  “ 

“  She  shall  change,  or,  by  heavens,  I  ’ll  put  her  out  of  the 
way,  and  make  a  will  to  suit  njyself !  ”  cried  the  infuriated 
priest. 

“  That ’s  what  you  ought  to  have  done  long  ago,”  coolly 
answered  the  superioress. 

. 

“  I  should,  but  for  Lord  De  Vere’s  brother,”  said  Bernaldi. 

l 

“  He  still  holds  Lady  Emilie’s  property,  and  would  not  be 
likely  to  give  it  up  without  a  strict  investigation.” 

“  He  does  not  know  where  she  is,  you  say.” 

“  No,  nor  never  will.  I  have  told  him  that  she  has  gone 
to  France,  and  he  thinks  she  is  still  there.  He  would  not 
dream  of  looking  for  her  so  near  home.” 

“Well,  but,  if  we  should  succeed  in  getting  her  to  make 

this  will,  how  would  you  manage  ?  ” 

, 

“  Why,  don’t  you  see  ?  I  should  tell  him  she  came  here 
the  very  day  before  she  died,  and,  calling  for  a  lawyer,  eaused 
such  a  will  to  be  drawn  up  and  sealed,  without  our  knowledge 
or  consent ;  and  then  handing  him  the  will,  still  sealed,  he 
could  suspect  nothing.” 

“  No  doubt,  you  would  make  a  good  story  of  it!  ”  said  thi 
mother,  laughing.  “  Come,  let ’s  have  a  glass  of  wine  over  it, 
and  drink  to  the  success  of  all  our  plans  !  ” 

Myrtie  crept  softly  through  the  narrow,  dark  hall,  on  each 
side  of  which  were  ranged  the  cells  of  the  hapless  inmates, 
and,  reaching  at  length  one  which  had  been  designal  ed  as 
Sister  Agnes’,  she  knocked  timidly,  and  was  quickly  admit- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


241 


ted  by  the  nun  into  her  little  dormitory.  Blinded  by  her 
tears  the  day  before,  Myrtie  had  not  noticed  how  pale  and 
emaciated  Sister  Agnes  looked,  and  she  started  at  the  wan 
face  and  figure  before  her.  The  nun  smiled  sadly,  as  she 
drew  the  little  girl  closely  to  her  side,  and,  throwing  her  arm 
affectionately  round  her,  said, 

“  You  are  not  afraid  I  am  a  ghost,  are  you  ?  ” 

“  0,  no,  ma’am  !  ”  replied  Myrtie,  “but  I’m  sorry  to  see 
you  look  so  sick !  ” 

A  tear  dropped  from  the  nun’s  eye  at  these  simple  words, 
the  first  of  sympathy  she  had  heard  for  many  a  year,  and  she 
felt  strangely  drawn  to  the  little  creature  beside  her. 

“  What  is  your  name,  dear  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“  Myrtie,  ma’am  !  ” 

“  Myrtie,  —  that ’s  a  very  pretty  name  !  How  old  are 
you  ?  ” 

“  I ’m  twelve,  and  Charlie ’s  fourteen.” 

“  Who ’s  Charlie,  pray?  ”  said  Sister  Agnes,  amused  at  the 
child’s  earnestness  and  simplicity. 

“  Why,  Charlie ’s  my  brother,  ma’am  !  ”  answered  Myrtie, 
with  a  little  surprise  that  he  should  not  be  known  by  every¬ 
body. 

“Where  is  he  now,  Myrtie?” 

The  eye  drooped  and  the  little  bosom  heaved,  as  she  replied, 

“  They ’ve  put  him  into  some  such  bad  place  as  this,  I  sup¬ 
pose  ;  ”  then,  growing  bolder,  she  added,  “  but  we  mean  to  get 
away  when  we  ’re  older.” 

“  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  my  child?  ”  asked  the  aston¬ 
ished  nun. 

“  0,  I  must  n’t  tell,  cause  Charlie  told  me  not  to ;  but 

21 


242 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


you  would  n’t  hurt  us,  would  you  ?  ”  and  Myrtie  looked  up, 
with  confiding  innocence,  into  the  sweet,  sad  face  above  her. 

“  Hurt  you,  my  poor  child  !  ”  exclaimed  Sister  Agnes, 
becoming  more  and  more  interested,  —  “  never,  never  !  Come, 
sit  down  here  and  tell  me  all  your  little  story ;  for  Sister 
Agnes  will  be  your  friend  always.” 

Myrtie  did  not  doubt  her  in  the  least ;  and  she  confided  all 
she  knew  of  herself,  Charlie,  Margery  and  Ralph,  into  the 
ear  of  her  willing  and  sympathizing  listener.  When  she  had 
done,  Sister  Agnes  pressed  her  more  closely  to  her  heart,  and 
imprinted  a  warm  kiss  on  her  cheek. 

“  Myrtie,  darling,”  said  she,  “  your  short  life  has  been  a 
sad  one,  but  such  suffering  as  you  never  dreamed  of  awaits 
you  in  this  place.  You  must  not  stay  here.  But  go  now, 
dear,  or  you  will  be  missed ;  come  to  me  as  often  as  you 
can  slip  away  without  being  seen,  for  my  heart  will  long 

for  your  innocent  sympathy,  to  beguile  its  wretchedness.” 

,  ■ 

“Sweet  child!”  murmured  the  nun,  closing  the  door 
after  Myrtie’s  retreating  form,  and  throwing  herself  upon 
her  hard  pallet ;  —  “  must  she  too  be  sacrificed  ?  No,  it  must 
not,  shall  not  be !  Though  I  may  never  see  my  childhood’s 
home,  or  the  dear  friends  of  my  youth,  this  poor  lamb  must 
be  restored  to  its  fold.  How  strangely  has  she  touched  a 
chord  in  my  memory,  bringing  back  long-forgotten  scenes 
and  familiar  faces  of  the  world  in  which  I  once  lived  !  And 
for  what  have  I  exchanged  those  sweet  memories  ?  —  ay,  for 
what !  Let  the  gloomy  walls  of  this  my  prison-house  hear 
my  reply  :  —  For  an  existence  terrible  as  the  tortures  of  a  lost 
soul !  0,  my  beloved  father,  for  this  have  I  left  you  to  die 

in  loneliness  and  grief ;  —  for  this  I  have  sacrificed  every 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


243 


earthly  hope  !  And  now,  as  my  soul  is  swiftly  passing  to  its 
dread  account,  what  have  I  to  look  or  hope  for  ?  Nothing, 
nothing,  but  the  darkness  and  despair  of  an  unknown  fu¬ 
turity  !  ” 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

“  T  is  fearful  building  upon  any  sin  ; 

One  mischief  entered,  brings  another  in  ; 

The  second  pulls  a  third,  the  third  draws  more, 

And  they  for  all  the  rest  set  ope  the  door.” 

“I  tell  ye,  Judy,  your  coffee ’s  thicker  ’n  mud,  and  these 
rolls ’d  weigh  a  pound  a  piece  !  I  can’t  eat  none  on  ’em,  any 
way !  ”  —  and  Ralph  bounced  out  of  the  house,  slamming  the 
door  after  him,  and  leaving  untasted  the  nice  breakfast  Judy 
had  so  carefully  prepared  for  him. 

“  Goodness  gracious  !  ”  exclaimed  she,  placing  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  and  looking  with  astonishment  through  the  win¬ 
dow  at  his  ungainly  figure  as  it  shambled  down  the  garden,  — 
“  what  has  come  over  that  fellow  ?  Why,  he ’s  only  fit  for  the 
madhouse,  and  has  n’t  been,  since  those  children  went  away. 
Coffee  all  muddy,  indeed  !  when  I  made  it  fresh  and  nice, 
and  settled  it  with  an  egg  a-purpose  for  him  !  0,  laws  a 

massy  !  well,  I  b’lieve  men  are  all  alike,  after  all  !  ”  —  and, 
with  this  sage  conclusion,  she  sat  down  in  inoody  silence  to 
partake  the  slighted  repast. 

Ralph  weeded  away  most  vigorously  in  his  large  flower-bed, 
often,  in  his  abstraction,  mistaking  one  for  the  other,  till  the 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


245 


confused  mass  at  his  feet  recalled  his  attention,  and  he  hastily 
gathered  up  the  waste  in  a  basket,  and  deposited  it  in  an  un¬ 
noticed  corner  of  the  garden.  While  thus  occupied,  a  sound 
like  that  of  a  person  scratching  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
attracted  his  attention,  and,  climbing  up,  he  perceived  a  man 
with  the  cowl  and  cassock  of  an  Augustine  friar.  At  the 
same  instant,  the  monk,  looking  up,  accosted  him 
“  Are  you  .Ralph,  the  gardener  ?  ” 

“  I ’m  Ralph  Riley,  and  nobody  else  !  ”  was  his  reply. 

“  Well,  come  down  to  that  little  opening  in  the  wall,  yonder. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you.” 

Ralph  looked  a  little  suspicious,  but  he  moved  along 
to  the  place  designated,  and  waited  for  the  stranger  to 
speak. 

“  You  had  a  little  boy  here,”  said  the  monk,  in  a  whisper, 
“  named  Charlie.  Do  you  know  what  has  become  of  him  ?  ” 
“  He ’s  gone  to  the  St.  Augustine,”  answered  Ralph,  la¬ 
conically. 

“  Have  you  ever  tried  to  see  him  ?  ” 

“  No,  ’cause  it ’s  no  use.” 

“  Would  you  like  to  see  and  talk  with  him  ?  ” 

“  Would  n’t  I !  ”  cried  Ralph,  looking  up,  joyfully. 

“  Well,  the  poor  fellow  is  nearly  heart-broken;  and  I  took 
.  pity  on  him,  and  promised  to  find  you  out,  and  bring  him 
tidings  of  his  little  sister,  Myrtie.” 

“  Then,  he ’s  told  ye  about  her,”  —  and  Ralph’s  countenance 
fell ;  —  “  but,  he  ’ll  never  see  her  agin.” 

“  How  ?  Why  so  ?  ’* 

“  0,  she ’s  gone  to  be  a  nun  ;  but  they  ’ll  kill  her  afore 
she ’s  old  enough  for  that !  ” 

21* 


246 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  When  did  she  go  ?  ”  asked  the  monk,  without  noticing 
the  last  part  of  Ralph’s  answer. 

“  About  a  month  ago  —  the  day  after  Charlie  went  away.” 

A  shade  of  disappointment  crossed  Father  Ambrose’s  face 
(for  it  was  he)  ;'and,  after  a  moment’s  thoughtfulness,  he  said, 

“  Poor  Charlie !  it  will  almost  kill  him  to  hear  of  this ;  but, 
if  you  will  come  to  this  place  just  after  sundown  to-night,  I 
will  manage  some  way  to  get  him  here,  so  that  you  can  tell 
him  all  about  it.  He  will  bear  it  better  from  you.” 

“  I  ’ll  be  here,  and  thank  ye  too,”  Ralph  quickly  rejoined, 
and  they  parted. 

“  Wal,”  thought  he,  “  I ’m  mighty  glad  lie ’s  got  a  friend ; 
but  my  poor  birdie ’s  all  alone  ’mong  them  great  ugly  nuns. 
I  must  go  ’n  tell  Margery  ’bout  this.” 

Pity,  indignation' jiid  grief,  alternately  prevailed  in  the 
gardener’s  heart,  as  he  poured  out  its  wretchedness  to  his 
willing  listener. 

“  Now,  Ralph,”  said  Marguerite,  as  he  concluded,  “you  must 
know  the  great  purpose  for  which  I  pray  that  my  life  may  be 
spared.  These  children,  Ralph,  —  that  noble  boy,  and  Myr- 
tie,  lovely  as  an  angel,  —  must  be  rescued  from  the  terrible  fate 
to  which  they  are  consigned.  You  do  not  know  the  reason 
of  their  treatment ;  but  listen,  and  I  will  tell  you.  Their  father, 
Sir  Charles  Duncan,  left  an  immense  property,  which,  at  the 
death  of  their  grandmother,  will  fall  to  these  two  alone.  Now, 
the  bishop  — yes,  Ralph,  the  bishop  and  priest  together — have 
planned  to  keep  these  children  within  their  grasp,  that  they 

may  secure  the  property  to  themselves,  and - the  church. 

Shame  upon  me  !  I  was  a  third  party  in  this  wrong ;  but  my 
eyes  are  opened,  and  my  heart  too,  I  trust,  and  now  I  only 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


247 


live  to  make  reparation.  You,  Ralph,  better  than  anybody 
else,  can  aid  me  in  this ;  and,  after  the  little  you  have  seen 
of  what  their  life  must  be  as  they  are,  I  know  you  will  do 
everything  in  your  power.” 

“That  I  will,”  said  Ralph,  to  whom  this  version  of  the  case 
was  new  ;  “  but  what  ’ll  we  do  ?  ” 

“  We  must  send  those  children  back  to  their  excellent 
mother,”  slowly  and  emphatically  replied  Marguerite. 

Ralph  scratched  his  head,  in  the  greatest  bewilderment. 
“  IIow  are  ye  ’gon  to  do  it  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“I  do  not  know  myself  yet;  but  I  feel  persuaded  there 
will  some  way  open  for  them.  I  may  die  first,  but  you, 
Ralph,  must  never  rest  till  it  is  accomplished.  Will  you 
promise  me  this  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  promise and  Ralph  crossed  himself,  with  so¬ 
lemnity. 

“  All  you  can  do  now,”  continued  Marguerite,  “  is  to  cheer 
them  up,  and  encourage  them  to  hope  for  the  future. 

“  I  ’ll  tell  Charlie,  to-night,  that  as  sartin  as  you  and  I  live 
he  ’ll  be  got  away  from  that  hole,”  said  Ralph,  warming  up. 
“  And  I  could  n’t  help  sayin’  some  such  thing  to  my  poor 
birdie  when  she  looked  so  drefful  at  me.” 

“  You  did  right,  Ralph ;  we  will  save  them  yet.” 

“  I  don’t  see  how  it ’s  ’gon  to  be  done;  but  I  ’ll  toll  ’em  so, 
any  how.”  And  Ralph  left  the  cottage  more  puzzled,  but  with 
a  lighter  heart,  than  he  entered  it. 

It  was  dusk  when  he  repaired  to  the  rendezvous  the  monk 
had  proposed,  so  that  he  could  not  see  Charlie’s  pale  face,  or 
its  woe-begone  expression  ;  but  the  tremulous  voice  with  which 
the  little  fellow  begged  to  see  his  sister  completely  overcame 


248 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Ralph,  and  the  big  tears  chased  each  other  down  his  cheek 
as  he  told  the  boj  of  Myrtie  and  her  trials.  Father  Ambrose 
stood  by,  but  something  seemed  to  affect  his  eyes,  and  he 
turned  away  to  wipe  them. 

“  Charlie  !  ”  whispered  Ralph,  “  guess  what  Margery  and 
I ’ve  been  talkin’  about,  this  afternoon ;  we  ’re  ’gon  to  git  you 
away  from  here,  and  send  you  home  to  your  mother.” 

“  How  can  you,  Ralph  ?  ”  asked  Charlie. 

“  That ’s  jest  what  I  asked  myself,  but  we  ’re  ’gon  to,  some 
how.” 

“  0,  Ralph,  how  kind  you  are  to  say  that !  Ever  since  I 
came  here  I ’ve  prayed  to  see  my  mother ;  and  one  night  I 
thought  I  saw  her  among  the  angels ;  but  I ’m  afraid  I  shall 
die  before  I  can  go  to  her.” 

“  No  fear  o’  that,  Charlie,  if  ye  only  keep  up  good  heart. 
Ye  can  stan’  it  a  spell  longer  in  that  ’tarnal  old  hole,  can’t 
ye?  ” 

“  0,  yes,  Ralph ;  I  could  bear  anything  if  I  knew  I  should 
go  with  Myrtie  and  live  at  our  own  home  again.” 

“  Wal,  jest  consider  that ’s  settled,  and  cheer  up,  my  boy.” 

“  I  will,  Ralph ;  but  can’t  I  see  Myrtie  again  till  then  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  see  no  way ;  they  keep  her  mighty  close ;  ’t  was 
as  much  as  I  could  do  to  get  one  sight  o’  her  sweet  face.” 

Charlie’s  breast  heaved,  and  tears  fell  thick  and  fast  at  this 
disappointment ;  but  the  severe  discipline  of  the  last  few 
weeks  had  taught  him  to  control  his  feelings,  which  he  quickly 
did,  and,  with  a  trembling  voice,  sent  a  message  of  love  to 
the  dear  sister  he  had  so  longed  to  see. 

Father  Ambrose  had  not  been  an  unmoved  spectator  of  this 
scene.  For  years  his  heart  had  not  been  so  touched  as  now, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


249 


aud  he  could  with  difficulty  restrain  himself  from  falling  on 
the  boj-’s  neck,  to  weep  with  him  in  his  misery.  From  that 
moment  the  orphans  cause  became  his  own,  and  with  heart 
and  soul  he  entered  into  all  their  plans,  proving  himself  a 
friend  indeed  to  the  friendless,  and  cheering  Charlie  on 
through  trials  and  sufferings,  by  ever  pointing  to  a  golden 
future  as  the  requital  for  all  these  woes. 

llalph’s  perplexity  increased  each  day,  as  a  thousand  new 
schemes  were  planned  and  rejected  by  him  and  Marguerite, 
while  still  the  burden  seemed  resting  on  them. 

“  We  must  try  to  be  patient,”  Marguerite  would  say  to 
him ;  “  such  a  daring  feat  as  ours  requires  time,  as  well  as 
the  most  careful  management.  I  do  not  doubt  we  shall 
accomplish  it ;  but  it  may  be  months,  and  even  years,  hence.” 

“  0,  dear,  dear,  and  my  birdie  feelin’  so  dreffully !  I  tell 
ye,  she  canTstan’  it,  no  way.”  And  Ralph  would  run  off  to 
conceal  his  agitation. 

One  day  he  came  to  Marguerite,  with  a  very  serious  air, 
and  asked  her  to  bring  him  a  cup  of  tea,  at  the  same  time 
taking  from  his  pocket  a  small  paper. 

“  Why,  Ralph,”  said  she,  “  what  is  the  matter  now  ?  what 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  ” 

“  You  ’ll  see,  Margery,  if  you  bring  me  the  tea.”  And, 
willing  to  indulge  him  in  his  strange  conceit,  she  made  the 
tea  and  brought  it  to  him.  Very  deliberately  unfolding  the 
little  paper,  he  poured  its  contents  into  the  cup. 

“  There !  ”  said  he,  “  now  I ’ve  done  what  I  promised  to  ; 
but  I  would  n’t  advise  ye  to  drink  it,  that ’s  all.” 

More  astonished  than  ever,  Marguerite  exclaimed,  “  Why, 
Ralph !  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  ” 


250 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Don’t  ye  know,”  said  he,  coming  close  to  her,  and  speak¬ 
ing  very  low,  “  his  ruv’rence  told  me  I  might  go  to  see  Myrtie 

if  I ’d  do  somethin’  for  him  ’thout  tellin’  on ’t?” 

*  * 

“  Yes,  Ralph,  — but  go  on  !  ” 

“  Wal,  this  mornin’,  jest  as  I  was  cornin’  over  here,  he  cum 
down  the  garden  mighty  pleasant-like,  and  says  he,  ‘  Have 
you  seen  Marguerite  lately  ?  ’  I  told  him  no,  but  I ’s  jest  goin’ 
over  there.  ‘  Was  ye  ?  ’  says  he ;  ‘  then  I  want  to  say  some¬ 
thin’  to  ye  first;’  and,  upon  that,  he  took  this  paper  out  o’  his 
pocket,  and  says  he,  ‘  You  know,  Ralph,  you  promised  to  do 
anything  I  bid  ye,  if  I  let  ye  see  Myrtie  often.’ 

“  ‘  Often !  ’  said  I ;  ‘  but  I  have  n't  seen  her  but  once,  and 
then  I  had  to  come  to  yur  ruv’rence  afore  they ’d  let  me  in.’ 

“  ‘  0,  well,’  said  he,  ‘  you  may  be  sure  that  won’t  hap¬ 
pen  agin  ;  they  did  n’t  understand  it  over  there ;  you  may  go 
to-morrow,  if  ye  wish.’  I  jumped  right  up,  I  tell  ye,  when 
he  said  that.  1  But,’  ses  he,  ‘  you  must  first  do  as  I  tell  ye.’ 
‘  That  I  will,’  ses  I ;  and  then  he  gave  me  this  paper,  and  told 
me  it  was  somethin’  to  make  ye  stronger,  and  that  I  must  jest 
put  it  into  yur  tea,  ’thout  yur  knowdn  it.  ‘  Yes,  sir ,  yur 
ruv’rence,’  ses  I,  ‘  I  ’ll  do  it.’  I  did  n’t  let  on  that  I  ’spected 
anything ;  but  I  thought ’t  would  be  jest  as  well  if  ye  knowed 
what  he  said.” 

“  Ralph,  you  are  a  noble  fellow ;  you  have  saved  my  life. 
I  have  known  for  a  long  time  that  he  wished  me  out  of  the 
way;  but  I *m  too  wary  for  him.  Well  he  knew  that  none 
other  could  have  done  this  deed ;  but  you  I  should  not  have 
watched,  and,  therefore,  he  chose  his  instrument  well.” 

“  What  ’ll  I  say  to  him,  though,  when  he  asks  me  ’bout  it  ?  ” 

u  Tell  him  you  did  as  he  bid  you,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


251 


Poor,  pitiful  fool !  my  vengeance  is  not  yet  completed,  as  he 
shall  find,  to  his  sorrow.” 

“  I  could  n’t  have  you  die,  no  how,  I  tell  ye,”  said  Ralph, 
his  eyes  glistening. 

“  I  don’t  expect  to  live  long,  Ralph;  something  within 
tells  me  my  days  are  numbered ;  but  not  by  his  hand  must  I 
die,  though  he  thus  wills  it.  Profess  strict  obedience  to  him, 
Ralph,  but  fail  not  to  confide  to  me  all  he  says ;  for  thus  only 
can  those  children  be  saved  !  ” 

“  I  ’ll  do  it  —  never  fear  but  what  I  will !  ’  Ralph  ex¬ 
claimed,  earnestly. 

“  Are  you  going  to  see  Myrtie  to-morrow  ?  ” 

“  Indeed  I  am  ;  I  must  cheer  up  my  poor  birdie,  or  she  ’ll 
die.” 

“  Tell  her  Margery  loves  her,  prays  for  her,  and  will  try 
to  save  her.” 

“  I  ’ll  tell  her  we  ’re  goin’  to  save  her.  I  tell  ye  it  makes 
me  feel  right  wicked  to  have  her  shut  up  so  from  all  the  buds 
and  flowers,  and  nice  frolics,  she  used  to  like  so  well.” 

“  It  won’t  be  long,  Ralph ;  she  ’ll  soon  be  as  free  as  the 
birds.” 

“  That ’s  a  fact,  and  Ralph  Riley’s  old  feet  ’ll  follow  her 
to  the  world’s  end.  I  must  go  home  now,  or  his  ruv’rence 
’ll  be  missin’  me;  look  out  all  round,  Margery,  won’t  ye?  ” 

“  You  may  be  sure  I  shall,  more  now  than  ever,  after 
what  you  have  told  me,  Ralph.” 

Much  to  his  surprise  and  gratification,  Ralph  was  admitted 
without  a  question  to  the  spacious  hall  of  the  convent,  and 
Myrtie  came  bounding  with  joy  to  meet  him.  For  a  few 
moments  he  neither  knew  nor  cared  for  aught  save  that  his 


■f. 


252 


ANNA  CLAYTON 


birdie  was  in  his  arms  once  more.  Then,  as  he  held  her  from 
him  to  see  if  she  had  changed,  he  became  conscious  that  a  pair 
of  gray  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  upon  them,  watching  every 
word  and  movement.  This  so  disconcerted  him  that  he  could 
only  clasp  Myrtie  more  closely  to  his  heart,  in  silence.  At 
length  a  loud  knocking  at  the  outer  door,  and  the  entrance  of 
visitors,  diverted  the  attention  of  the  superioress,  and  Ralph 
improved  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  him  to  whisper  words 
of  comfort  and  hope  into  his  birdie’s  heart.  That  little  heart 
beat  quick  at  the  mention  of  Charlie’s  name,  and  his  simple, 
affectionate  message  was  treasured  midst  her  tears.  Then  her 
little  confidences  were  all  poured  into  the  ear  ever  open  to  her 
slightest  word,  and  Ralph  was  made  acquainted  with  all  dear 
Sister  Agnes  had  said  and  done,  and  how  she  had  promised  to 
try  and  help  her  to  get  away  from  the  convent,  before  she  was 
old  enough  to  take  the  veil. 

What  a  relief  it  was  to  her  faithful,  true-hearted  friend, 

* 

when  Myrtie  assured  him  that  she  had  not  been  treated  so 
badly  since  he  was  there  before !  To  be  sure,  nobody  but 
Sister  Agnes  had  spoken  a  pleasant  word  to  her ;  but  then 
they  did  n’t  whip  her,  and  make  her  lie  all  night  on  a  hard 
stone  floor,  as  they  used  to,  and  so  she  got  along  pretty 
well,  and  he  must  not  cry  any  more  about  her,  for  she  could 
bear  it  till - 

She  did  not  finish  this  sentence,  for  the  sharp  gray  eyes 
were  again  upon  them ;  and  the  mother  said,  in  no  very 
pleasant  tone, 

“Your  whispered  conference  has  been  too  long,  already; 
you  will  go  directly  to  your  tasks,  Myrtie,  and  your  old 
friend  will  be  careful  not  to  repeat  his  long  visit  again.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


253 


What  cared  Ralph  for  her  sour  words  and  looks  ?  He  had 
held  his  birdie  to  his  heart,  and  found  her  better  than  his 
fears  anticipated ;  and  was  he  not  soon  to  see  her  free 
among  the  hills  of  her  own  native  home?  Lighter-hearted 
than  he  had  been  since  Myrtie  left  the  cottage,  Ralph  returned 
to  his  labor  and  his  schemes. 

22  -  i 


* 


r 

•  * 


✓ 


c 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

t 

“  And  doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends 

For  all  the  long  years  I ’ve  been  wandering  away  ?  ”. 

_  ^  m 

Ten  years !  And  how  lightly  has  their  swift  passage 
touched  the  cheek  and  brow  of  Herbert  Lindsey’s  lovely  wife  ! 
Care  and  trouble  have  been  strange  .guests  in  their  peaceful 
manse ;  and,  but  for  the  deep  sympathy  which  made  the 
sorrows  of  another  her  own,  Bessie’s  days  would  have  been 
passed  in  almost  cloudless  sunshine.  The  little  olive-plants  that 
gather  around  her  table  give  her  a  matronly  air,  by  no  means 
unbecoming ;  and  if  the  man  of  God,  in  rebuking  sin  among 
his  people,  often  feels  that  pride  and  idolatry  are  to  be  espe¬ 
cially  guarded  against  in  his  own  heart,  as  he  gazes  at  his 
home  treasures,  who  can  wonder  ?  Herbert  Lindsey  feels, 
and  rightly,  too,  that  to  the  humble,  fervent  piety  and  holy 
example  of  his  wife  may  be  traced,  in  a  great  measure,  his 
own  eminent  success.  Beloved  he  certainly  is  for  his  many 
excellences  and  devotion  to  his  spiritual  calling ;  but  the 
words  of  wisdom  which  fall  from  his  lips  seem  to  have  a  deeper 

•  •  •  •  /  ^  v  v 

significance  in  the  pure  and  heavenly  lif<y  shining  forth  from 
the  pastor’s  home. 

And  Anna,  too,  whom  we  left  long  years  since  at  the  bridal 
altar,  mingling  with  its  sacred  vows  a  mother’s  unceasing 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


256 


prayers  for  her  lost  ones,  —  how  has  her  heart  been  sustained 
in  its  still  hopeless  bereavement?  Alas!  the  grave  must 
long  since  have  given  its  silent  response,  but  for  the  noble, 
unwearying  devotion  of  him  who  uttered  no  unmeaning  vow 
when  he  received  to  his  heart  the  broken  flower,  and  promised 
to  cherish  and  protect  it  from  every  rude  blast.  Well  and 
faithfully  has  he  kept  that  pledge ;  and,  though  each  year 
the  fragile  form  of  his  beautiful  bride  bends  more  droopingly 
upon  his  bosom,  as  the  mother’s  hopes,  one  by  one,  fade  away, 
yet  the  warm,  loving  glance  which  ever  meets  his  own  tells 
him. that  in  her  spirit’s  shrine  he  is  forever  embalmed.  Dear 
to  him  is  the  task  of  winning  back  thebeloved  life  he  has  ever 
worshipped ;  and  happiness  deep  and  unutterable,  though 
often  sad  and  subdued,  reigns  in  the  home  of  Robert  Gra¬ 
ham.  Their  little  coterie  of  friends  remains  unbroken;  for 
death,  at  that  fell  tragedy,  stood  back  aghast,  daring  only  to 
point  its  skeleton  finger  to  the  circle  vanquished  by  a  more 
terrible  foe. 

Seventy  winters  tell  their  snowy  tale  in  the  venerable 
locks  of  the  village  squire,  while  Mrs.  Clayton  still  faith¬ 
fully  retains  her  post  by  his  side,  cheering  him  through 
life’s  last  days,  untouched  herself  by  time’s  quick  flight. 

Near  the  old  stone  mansion  Robert  reared  a  beautiful  home 
for  his  bride  and  now  another,  no  less  costly  or  elegant,  is 
placed  by  its  side,  and  Nelly  Lee,  proud  and  happy,  is  its 
presiding  genius.  Like  a  butterfly  she  flits  through  each 
happy  home,  carrying  light  and  joy  to  all ;  then,  closing  her 
wings  in  her  own  bower,  she  sinks  with  a  grateful,  overflow¬ 
ing  heart,  and  pours  forth  her  simple  orisons  for  him  who  has 


256 


ANNA  C  LAYTON. 


thus  sheltered  her  from  the  cold  storms  of  this  pitiless  world 
in  his  paternal  arms. 

Nelly  must  needs  be  grateful ;  for  the  true-hearted  Quaker 
has  nobly  redeemed  his  promise  to  the  friendless  child  of 
charity,  and  no  father  could  more  tenderly  watch  over  his 
own  than  does  James  Lee  cherish  his  adopted  daughter.  Only 
one  cause  had  Nelly  for  unhappiness ;  that  was  in  the  obscur¬ 
ity  of  her  birth.  Could  she  be  assured  that  honest  though 
abject  poverty  had  been  the  lot  of  her  parents,  then  would  her 
mind  be  at  rest ;  but  the  blood  tingled  painfully  through  her 
veins  as  the  humiliating  thought  often  forced  itself  upon  her 
that  she  might  be  the  child  of  shame.  She  would  not  disturb 
the  peace  of  her  dear  father  —  for  so  had  she  learned  to  call 
Mr.  Lee  —  by  such  vague  fancies ;  but  still  they  preyed  silently 
upon  her  young  heart. 

Of  his  early  history  Mr.  Lee  seldom  spoke,  save  to  Robert 
and  his  wife  ;  and  they  only  gathered  that  some  great  sorrow 
had  burdened  his  youth,  the  secret  of  which  would  go  with 
him  to  his  grave.  But  not  thus  was  the  calm,  submissive 
spirit  in  which  he  had  received  these  sore  chastisements  to 
be  rewarded  —  not  such  the  requital  of  his  kindness  to  the 
orphan ! 

“  A  letter  for  you,  father,”  said  Nelly,  as  he  came  home, 
one  evening,  “  and  a  singular-looking  missive  it  is,  too ;  ”  and 
she  handed  him  a  package  bearing  a  foreign  stamp  and  seal. 
He  took  it,  gazed  earnestly  at  the  superscription,  and  then,  as 
his  eye  fell  on  the  stamp,  he  trembled  violently,  and  retired 
to  his  own  room  before  breaking  the  seal.  One,  two,  and  even 
three  hours  passed,  and  still  he  returned  not,  till  Nelly, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


257 


unable  longer  to  endure  the  suspense,  ventured  to  knock 

% 

timidly  at  his  door. 

“  Come  in,  dear  child,”  he  cried ;  and,  holding  out  his  hand 
as  she  approached  him,  he  said,  in  an  agitated  voice,  “  Come 
hither,  my  daughter ;  here  is  a  mystery  to  be  unravelled.” 

“  Does  it  nearly  concern  you,  father,  and  is  it  anything 
very  serious?”  she  inquired,  anxiously. 

“  More  serious,  and  more  nearly  concerning  me,  than  thee 
can  imagine,  Nelly !  But  first  I  must  tell  thee  that  which  I 
had  thought  to  bury  with  me —  a  tale  of  wretchedness  that 
made  this  world  a  wilderness,  till  thou,  dear  child,  stirred 
again  the  fountain  of  love  in  my  heart !  ”  He  paused,  and 
Nelly  drew  nearer  to  him,  clasping  his  hand  with  filial  affec¬ 
tion,  while  she  exclaimed, 

“  What  does  not  the  poor  orphan  owe  to  this  hand,  that 
raised  her  from  degradation,  and  suffered  her  to  win  a  place 
in  the  noblest  heart  that  ever  throbbed  !  ” 

“  Nay,  nay,  my  child !  thou  knowest  not  how  thou  hast 
brought  back  to  life  thy  poor  father.  When  all  his  sad  tale 
is  told  thee,  then,  perhaps,  thou  wilt  see  the  glorious  mission 
it  has  been  given  thee  to  fulfil.” 

“  Bless  you,  my  dear  father,  for  these  words !  and  now  I 
listen  with  intense  interest  to  your  story,  and  the  connection 
it  has  with  that  letter.” 

Mr.  Lee  shaded  his  face,  that  its  varying  emotions  might 
not  be  visible  to  her,  and  then  proceeded  : 

“  In  my  early  youth,  Nelly,  I  wooed  and  won  a  beautiful 
bride.  Carrie  Linton,  an  only  daughter,  beloved  by  all,  and 
sought  by  many  richer  and  more  noble  than  I,  gave  to  me  the 
priceless  treasure  of  her  love ;  and  I  could  only  worship  and 

22* 


258 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


idolize  the  being  who  had  thus  ennobled  me.  In  my  eyes  she 
was  all  perfection ;  but  friends,  who  looked  with  calmer  gaze 
at  this  paragon,  cautioned  me  against  her  light  and  trifling 
character.  Blinded  as  I  was,  it  seemed  to  me  but  the  exu¬ 
berance  of  a  happy,  loving  heart,  all  too  soon  to  be  checked 
by  the  serious,  earnest  life  which  she  well  knew  awaited  her 
as  my  wife.  She  loved  me  passionately  (0,1  will  never  doubt 
that ! ),  and  we  both  trusted  to  the  serenity  of  the  future  for 
our  happiness.  Her  friends,  too,  saw  the  incongruity  of  the 
gay,  fashionable  belle  becoming  a  sober  Quaker’s  wife.  But 
when  did  love  ever  stop  to  consider  or  reason? 

“  Carrie  and  I  were  married  in  the  full  expectation  of  a 
quiet,  blissful  union ;  and  for  weeks  and  months  naught  dis¬ 
turbed  our  deep,  tranquil  happiness,  while  she  was  pronounced 
by  all  a  model  Quaker’s  wife.  The  advent  of  a  little  being, 
who  usurped  her  mother’s  name,  and  inherited  her  beauty, 
seemed  to  perfect  our  joy.  Thus  were  the  skies  bright  above 
us,  and,  as  we  thought,  our  path  strewed  with  flowers.  When 
little  Carrie  was  three  months  old,  I  was  called  to  England  to 
attend  to  some  important  business,  and  left,  with  many  tears, 
my, home  Eden.  Little  thought  I  that  a  serpent  was  lurking 
around  that  sacred  bower. 

“  My  wife,  engrossed  with  the  care  of  her  little  nursling 
and  other  home  duties,  seldom  wrote ;  but  the  charming  simplic¬ 
ity  of  her  affectionate  messages  repaid  me  for  their  scarcity. 
The  business  which  called  me  away  proved  much  more  intri¬ 
cate  than  I  had  anticipated,  and  consequently  detained  me 
abroad  beyond  all  my  expectations.  I  had  not  heard  from 
home  for  many  months,  when  one  morning  a  package  was 
handed  me,  bearing  the  familiar  stamp,  but  in  a  strange  hand- 


259 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

writing.  I  tore  it  open  with  a  vague  presentiment  of  coming 
evil.  But  who  can  picture  my  despair  when,  devouring  its 
contents,  I  learned  that  my  wife,  at  the  instigation  of  base 
calumniators  and  the  entreaties  of  her  friends,  had  left  for¬ 
ever  her  husband  and  home,  and  that  legal  proceedings  were 
already  commenced  for  our  separation  !  Again  and  again 
did  those  terrible  words  burn  themselves  into  my  brain,  ere  I 
realized  their  dread  import.  Then,  when  the  overwhelming 
truth  forced  itself  upon  me,  delirium  mercifully  blotted  out 
those  first  hours  of  anguish,  and  I  awoke  to  consciousness 
under  the  gentle  ministrations  of  my  kind  hostess,  and  excel¬ 
lent  physician,  who,  the  better  to  understand  my  case,  deemed 
it  necessary  to  read  the  dreadful  letter.  Unutterable  sym¬ 
pathy  dwelt  in  every  line  of  their  faces,  as  they  bent  over  me 
in  unwearied  efforts  to  restore  the  shattered  senses. 

“  Despite  all  their  remonstrances,  I  determined  to  return  at 
once  to  my  home  (alas !  no  more  a  home  for  me),  and  prevent, 
if  possible,  the  terrible  consummation.  But  I  arrived  too 
late  !  Slander  had  scattered  its  foul  venom  before  me ;  and 
I,  who  had  been  toiling  day  and  night  that  I  might  the  sooner 
return  to  my  loved  ones,  wras  stigmatized  as  a  base  deserter 
of  my  wife  and  child  for  the  low-born  pleasures  of  a  volup¬ 
tuary  !  The  fiat  had  gone  forth  —  my  doom  was  sealed,  and 
my  home  stripped  of  its  idols  !  Agonizingly  I  besought  one 
interview  with  her  who  was  my  wife ;  but,  to  prevent  this, 
they  had  removed  her  far  away,  and  I  never  saw  her  again. 
It  was  in  vain  to  refute  the  charges ;  it  could  not  give  me 
back  my  treasures,  and  wThat  cared  I  for  aught  else  ?  Since 
that  time  I  have  wandered  over  the  earth,  finding  neither  rest 
nor  happiness,  till  thou ,  dear  Nelly,  came  like  a  God-send  to 


260 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


my  heart,  and  opened  again  its  sweet  fountains.  To  me  hast 
thou  been  as  my  own  child  !  ” 

“  0,  my  father !  ”  cried  Nelly,  raising  her  streaming  eyes 
to  his,  “what  sorrows  have  been  yours!  —  and  yet  you  endure 
all  in  uncomplaining  silence  !  ” 

“  There  is  my  strength,  my  daughter  !  ”  said  he,  pointing 
above,  “  and  there,  only,  can  the  secrets  of  my  heart  be  dis¬ 
closed.  But  when  I  meet  her  pure  spirit  above,  then,  then 
will  she  know  the  truth  and  faithfulness  of  her  husband !  ” 

“But  what  has  this  to  do  with  it,  father?”  asked  Nelly, 
pointing  to  the  letter. 

“  Much,  every  way,  my  dear ;  for  it  gives  me  the  startling 
information  that  my  child  still  exists  in  some  place  unknown 
to  her  maternal  relatives.  It  seems  —  though  I  knew  it  not 
before  —  that  Carrie  left  them  all,  and  sought  some  obscure 
place,  where  she  lived  in  sorrow,  and  died  with  grief.  Her 
dear  remains  still  rest  they  know  not  where,  and  my  own 
child  is,  like  me,  a  wanderer  on  the  earth.  A  large  fortune 
(so  this  letter  tells  me)  awaits  her  when  found.  But  not  for 
that  will  I  now  seek  her.  Heaven  grant  me  the  precious  boon 
of  clasping  once  more  to  my  heart  this  dear  image  of  my  lost 
Carrie !  ” 

“  Amen!  ”  responded  Nelly,  from  her  heart. 

Mr.  Lee  gazed  lovingly  at  the  unselfish,  noble  girl,  as  he 
added,  “To-morrow  I  must  leave  thee;  and,  should  my 
prayers  be  answered,  thou  wilt  lose  no  place  in  thy  father’s 
heart.” 

“  Think  not  of  me,  dear  father!  ”  she  replied;  “  my  heart 
will  pray  unceasingly  for  your  success,  and  the  happiest 
moment  of  my  life  will  be  when  I  see  your  Carrie  locked  in 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


261 


her  father’s  arras  !  ”  Had  the  gift  of  prophecy  been  conferred 
on  Nelly,  she  could  not  have  spoken  more  truthfully. 

The  next  morning,  pale  and  agitated,  James  Lee  went  forth 
on  his  errand  of  love.  Weeks  passed  ere  the  faintest  trace  of 
his  lost  treasures  could  be  found  ;  yet  he  wearied  not  in  his 
ceaseless  search.  At  length  an  incident,  trifling  in  itself,  led 

him  to  the  obscure  but  charming  village  of  W - ,  where 

he  learned  from  an  old  lady  that,  many  years  before,  a  lady 
and  child  inhabited  the  small  cottage  near  her,  just  in  the 
edge  of  the  wood.  She  “  could  tell  but  little  about  them,” 
she  said,  “  for,  if  her  memory  served  her  right,  no  one  knew 
or  visited  them.”  Where  they  went,  or  what  became  of  them, 
she  did  not  know,  for  she  “  went  away  about  that  time  to  live 
with  her  daughter.” 

Vague  and  unsatisfactory  as  was  this  information,  it  yet 
determined  Mr.  Lee  to  remain  and  trace  the  history  of  this 
lady.  He  soon  chanced  to  meet  a  nurse,  who  had  been  em¬ 
ployed  in  that  capacity  for  thirty  years,  and  professed  to 
know  everything  about  everybody.  From  her  he  drew  all 
that  was  necessary  to  convince  him  that  here,  indeed,  his  lost 
Carrie  lived  and  died.  Where  she  was  laid  not  even  the  old 
nurse  could  tell ;  and  his  widowed  heart  wandered  among  the 
graves,  if  perchance  her  spirit  might  lead  him  to  its  resting- 
place. 

But  his  daughter  —  where  was  she  ?  All  that  he  could 
learn  was,  that  some  person  had  taken  her  away ;  but  where 
none  knew,  or  what  was  to  be  her  fate.  Sadly  the  father 
pursued  his  anxious  search,  —  hope  and  fear  alternately  pre¬ 
vailing  in  his  breast,  —  till  finally  his  perseverance  was  re¬ 
warded  by  hearing  that  the  little  orphan  child  (as  she  was 


262 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


supposed  to  be)  had  been  carried  to  a  remote  town.  Thither 
he  went  at  once,  only  to  learn  that  from  thence  she  had  been 
removed  to  another  town,  more  distant,  and  so  on.  Following 
the  wanderings  of  the  friendless  girl,  he  had  well-nigh  yielded 
to  his  anxiety  and  grief  for  the  fate  of  his  only,  darling  child. 
With  what  surprise  and  consternation  did  he  at  length  trace 

her  to  the  pauper’s  home  in  the  village  of  B - ,  the  -very 

place  he  had  so  often  visited  with  Bessie,  and  from  whose 
church-yard  he  had  taken  Nelly  to  his  home ! 

A  thousand  wild(  delirious  fancies  filled  his  brain,  as  he 
thought  of  Nelly’s  story  of  her  own  childhood  and  unknown 
parentage.  Heart-sick  with  suspense,  and  unable  to  control 
his  agitation,  the  bewildered  father  entered  the  asylum  of 
poverty,  and  hurriedly  inquired  if  any  of  its  inmates  bore 
the  name  of  Carrie  Lee. 

“  Not  any,”  was  the  laconic  answer. 

“  But  such  an  one  did  come  here,  in  the  vear-18 — ?  ” 

“  Very  likely,”  answered  the  overseer,  “  but  I  was  not  here 
at  that  time.” 

“  Hast  thou  no  records  ?  ” 

*  >•/"  * 

“Yes,  sir,  but  the  town-clerk  keeps  them.” 

“  For  Heaven’s  sake,  friend,”  exclaimed  Mr.  Lee,  slipping 
some  money  into  his  hand,  “  go  bring  me  those  records  !  ” 

The  man  obeyed  with  alacrity  this  golden  order,  and  soon 
returned  with  the  important  documents.  With  trembling 
hands  Mr.  Lee  turned  over  page  after  page,  till,  in  the  very 
year  he  had  named,  he  found  an  entry  of  the  reception,  not 
of  Carrie,  but  of  Nelly  Lee.  The  most  careful  scrutiny 
proved  that  no  other  of  that  name  had  been  entered  there. 
Scarcely  daring  to  trust  his  thoughts,  the  half-crazed  father 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


263 


found  the  widow  of  the  former  overseer,  who  was  in  nowise 
loth  to  give  him  a  bit  of  the  gossip  of  her  palmy  4ays.  Dis¬ 
tracted  between  uncertainty  and  hope,  his  incoherent  questions 
were  slightly  heeded  by  the  woman,  who  evidently  thought  him 
a  little  “  out  of  his  head.”  The  rare  opportunity,  however, 
of  displaying  her  knowledge,  could  not  be  resisted,  and  she 
rattjed  on  most  unmercifully  about  all  the  children  “she  had 
been  a  mother  to.”  Mr.  Lee  listened  with  the  utmost  impa¬ 
tience,  hoping  she  would  at  length  reach  the  longed-for  name  ; 
nor  was  he  disappointed.  “  Then,”  said  she,  “  there  was  the 
poorest  little  creetur  you  ever  did  see  cum  one  day,  with  a 
man,  who  sed  they ’d  kep  her  long  enough  in  his  town,  and  we 
must  take  our  spell.  She ’d  been  round  every  town  jist  so,  — 
nobody  knowed  where  she  cum  from,  or  who  she ’d  ever  be¬ 
longed  to.  I  tuk  a  mighty  likin’  to  her,  she ’s  so  terrible 
putty ;  so  I  kep  her  longer  ’n  I  need  to,  and  then  an  old  maid, 
here,  Miss  Nancy,  took  her  right  hum  with  her,  and  made  a 
darter  on  her.  She  was  mighty  curus  ’bout  her  name,  tho’. 
Sumtimes  she’d  say  ’twas  Carrie,  and  then  she’d  cry  to  be 

called  Nelly ;  so  my  old  man  put  it  on  to  his  books - Lord 

a’marcy,  the  man’s  gone  clean  crazy!  ” — exclaimed  she,  as 
with  her  last  words  Mr.  Lee  rushed  out  of  the  house  and 
down  the  street  as  far  as  she  could  see,  —  “I  guess  I  ’ll  bar 
my  door,  cause-  I ’m  a  lone  widder,  and  like  as  not  he  ’ll  be 
back  agin.”  So  saying,  she  secured  her  house,  and  sat  down 
to  consider  the  event,  while  the  object  of  her  fears  was  riding 
in  hot  haste  towards  his  home,  his  heart  bounding  with  wild 
ecstacy.  _ 

“  Come,  Anna,”  said  Mrs.  Lindsey,  one  pleasant  morning, 
“  I  have  called  for  you  to  walk  with  me  over  to  Nelly’s.” 


264 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  same  thing  this  morning, 
Bessie,  and  will  be  ready  to  join  you  in  a  few  moments.” 

“Don’t  you  think  Nelly  is  very  much  changed  since  Mr. 
Lee  went  away  ?  ”  asked  Anna,  as  they  pursued  their  walk. 

“  Poor  girl,  she  seems  lonely  and  low-spirited,  I  think  !  ” 
said  Bessie.  “  She  is  so  fond  of  him,  she  cannot  bear  to  have 
him  out  of  her  sight.” 

“  I  know  she  is,”  said  Anna,  “  but  it  seems  to  me  that  is 
not  all  that  troubles  her.  Have  you  noticed  how  pale  and 
careworn  she  looks,  of  late,  as  though  some  secret  sorrow 
preyed  upon  her  ?  ” 

“You  are  a  closer  observer  than  I,  Anna  ;  I  confess  I  have 

% 

not  thought  much  of  it.  But  there  she  is,  coming  out  to  meet 
us ;  she  must  answer  for  herself.” 

“  Nelly,  dear,”  said  Anna,  when  they  were  quietly  seated, 
“  we  have  been  thinking  that  you  look  quite  sad,  lately.” 

“Do  I ? ”  answered  Nelly,  smiling.  “I  am  very  far  from 
feeling  sad  just  at  this  moment,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
both !  ” 

“  When  do  you  expect  Mr.  Lee? ” 

“  X  cannot  tell  you,”  said  Nelly ;  “  his  return  is  very  uncer¬ 
tain.  I  look  for  him  every  day,  and  yet  he  may  not  come  for 
weeks  —  perhaps  months.” 

“I  miss  him  very  much,”  said  Bessie;  “ our  circle  never 
seems  complete  without  him.” 

“  And  Robert,”  added  Anna,  “  can  scarcely  get  along 
without  his  right-hand  man,  as  he  calls  Mr.  Lee.” 

Scarcely  were  these  words  uttered,  when  all  three  started, 
as  a  carriage  drove  furiously  up  to  the  door. 

“  There  he  is  !  ”  cried  Nelly,  violently  agitated,  and  at  the 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


265 


game  moment  James  Lee  burst  into  the  room,  and  caught 
her  to  his  heart.  “  My  daughter  !  my  own  child  !  ”  he  cried  : 
“  thank  God,  I  have  found  thee  at  last !  ”  Then,  as  Nelly 
locked  wonderinglySn  his  face,  he  added,  “Dear,  'precious 
image  of  my  lost  Carrie,  why  have  I  not  before  seen  thy 
mother’s  wondrous  beauty  in  thy  sweet  face  ?  Nelly,  thou  art 
indeed  mine  l  ’Tis  th y  father's  arms  that  embrace  thee  — 
thine  own  father  !  Thou  art  no  more  Nelly,  but  the  sweet 
namesake  of  her  that  bore  thee,  my  sainted  Carrie !  ” 

J o y  like  this  who  can  picture  ?  —  when  the  dark  waves 
that  have  so  long  rolled  and  dashed  at  will  against  his  strug¬ 
gling  heart  are  stayed ,  and  a  gentle  voice  comes  o’er  the 
waters,  crying  “  Peace,  peace !  ”  And  thou  too,  noble  girl, 
hast  now  gained  the  only  desire  of  thy  heart  —  an  honorable 
parentage. 

Sincere  and  heart-felt  were  the  tears  of  joy  that  mingled 
with  his  own,  as  Mr.  Lee  told  his  tale  to  the  two  friends  who 
had  witnessed  the  strange  scene.  If  in  Anna’s  heart  some 
murmuring  thoughts  would  whisper  what  might  have  been  her 
joy,  that  heart  replied,  at  once,  “  My  Father  rules  the  storm,” 
and  hushed  were  its  murmurings. 

“  Who  can  now  distrust  the  beneficence  of  our  God  ?  ” 
exclaimed  Mr.  Lee,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart.  “Friend 
Anna,  thou  ’ It  yet  see  joy  as  great  as  mine  —  the  spirit  within 
tells  me  thus.” 

Mournfully  shaking  her  head,  Anna  joined  her  friend  in 
silence,  and  in  deep  thought  both  pursued  their  homeward 
way. 

23 


“  0  !  think  what  anxious  moments  pass  between 
The  birth  of  plots  and  their  last  fatal  periods  ! 

0  !  ’t  is  a  dreadful  interval  of  time. 

Tilled  up  with  horror  and  big  with  death  !  ” 

Addison. 

The  bishop  paced,  with  impatient  steps,  the  soft-carpeted 
floor  of  his  private  audience  chamber.  Something  unusual  had 
evidently  occurred  to  disturb  him ;  for  as  often  as  he  passed 
and  repassed  the  window,  he  would  look  anxiously  into  the  court¬ 
yard  below,  as  though  watching  for  the  arrival  of  some  one. 

“  What  a  vexatious  piece  of  business  this  is  !  ”  at  length  he 

* 

exclaimed.  “  I  ’m  really  afraid  those  blood-hounds  will  track 
him  here  before  Bernaldi  gets  him  safely  off.  How  provoking 
that,  just  because  he  served  us  once  (and  he  was  well  paid  for 
it,  too),  he  must  needs  call  upon  us  to  save  his  neck  from  the 
gallows !  If  I  was  sure  he  would  keep  mum  till  he  did  swing, 
de’il  a  bit  I ’d  do  for  him,  I  know.  But  it ’s  just  the  way 
with  these  fellows  !  —  let  them  once  get  any  hold  on  you,  and 
there ’s  no  end  to  their  demands.” 

“  Come  in  '  ”  cried  he,  in  answer  to  a  gentle  knock  at  the 
door,  and  the  object  of  his  soliloquy  presented  himself. 

Ah,  Manning,  how  are  you,  this  morning?”  said  he, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


267 


extending  his  hand.  “  Are  you  rested  from  your  wild-goose 
chase  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  but  that  was  a  good  one,  though.” 

“  I  must  own  that  I  feel  considerably  used  up,”  replied 
the  other,  with  a  yawn.  “  To  tell  the  truth,  I  did  n’t  dare 
to  sleep  with  but  one  eye  at  a  time  ;  therefore,  you  will  excuse 
me,  most  excellent  father,  if  I  stretch  myself  a  while  on  this 
dainty  lounge.” 

“  Certainly  !  Make  yourself  at  home,  Mr.  Manning ;  you 
need  all  the  rest  you  can  get,  as  you  have  quite  a  little  jour- 
^  ney  before  you  yet.” 

“  The  deuce  I  have  !  But  how  lam  I  to  get  there  without 
being  seen  ?  ” 

“  Father  Adolpho,  with  his  shaven  beard  and  pate,  accom¬ 
panying  his  holy  brother  on  missions  of  mercy,  need  not  fear 
to  meet  the  officers  of  justice  face  to  face.  Little  will  they 
suspect  him  to  be  their  prison-bird  ;  ”  and  the  bishop  laughed 
heartily  at  his  own  craftiness. 

“  By  Jove,  I  couldn’t  have  fixed  that  up  better  myself!  ” 
cried  Philip  Manning,  springing  to  his  feet  as  he  caught  an 
inkling  of  their  ingenious  plan ;  “  but  I ’m  deuced  afraid 
they  ’ll  be  at  my  heels  before  we  are  ready  for  them.” 

“  Here  comes  Bernaldi,  at  last !  ”  burst  from  the  bishop’s 
lips,  with  a  sigh  of  relief ;  “  now  we  are  safe.” 

Philip  Manning  could  scarcely  believe  in  his  own  identity 
as  he  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass  from  head  to  foot,  after 
leaving  Bernaldi’s  dexterous  hands ;  and  loud  and  long  did 
he  laugh  at  the  metamorphosed  being  before  him.  “  You  say 
that  fellow’s  name  ”  —  pointing  to  himself —  “  is  Father  Adol¬ 
pho.  Well,  it  ’ll  seem  pretty  curious ;  but  I  guess  I  can  man¬ 
age  it.  It ’s  better,  any  how,  than  to  have  one’s  neck  tied  up 


% 


268 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


too  tight !  Where  are  we  bound  to,  though  ?  I  have  n’t 
asked  that  question  yet.” 

“  Father  Bernaldi  will  accompany  you  to  a  brotherhood  in 
a  retired  spot,  where  we  hope  you  will  be  cautious  as  to  your 
future  conduct.  Your  entrance  there  will  bring  you  under 
solemn  obligations  to  obey,  perfectly  and  implicitly,  every 
command  of  the  church,  through  its  chosen  head ;  and  any 
violation  of  such  a  pledge  would  be  visited  by  its  severest 
penalties.” 

“  Most  holy  father,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  leniency  and  kind¬ 
ness  to  the  poor  convict !  ”  exclaimed  Manning,  with  solemn 
mockery,  falling  on  his  knees  before  the  bishop. 

“  We  know  how  to  treat  our  friends”  replied  the  bishop, 
significantly ;  “  but  rise  up  now,  and  hasten  away,  lest  some 
untoward  event  should  yet  place  you  in  the  hands  of  the  law. 
Henceforth,  let  ‘  Father  Adolpho  ’  forget  that  such  a  being  as 
Philip  Manning  existed.  Farewell !  ” 

“  I  would  speak  with  you  a  moment,”  said  Bernaldi,  return¬ 
ing  to  the  bishop’s  presence,  while  the  pseudo-monk  awaited 
him  in  the  hall.  “  This  troublesome  affair  may  detain  me 
some  time  from  home  —  perhaps  a  month.” 

“  Well,  well,”  interrupted  the  bishop;  “  if  you  succeed  in 
ridding  us  of  him,  it  will  be  a  good  month’s  work.” 

“  No  doubt  of  that,”  replied  the  other ;  “  but  what  I  wish 
to  say  is,  that  Marguerite  seems  failing  rapidly ;  and,  should 
she  require  the  service  of  a  priest  before  I  return - ” 

“I’ll  attend  to  that,  I  assure  you!  Her  last  confession 
might  be  rather  dangerous  for  us.” 

“Just  so,”  said  Bernaldi;  “and  now  I  go,  with  your 
blessing.” 


# 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


269 


“  Thank  God,  they  ’re  off,  at  last !  ”  cried  the  bishop,  as  he 
watched  the  speedy  departure  and  retreating  forms  of  the 
brother  monks.  “  Now  I  will  go  and  attend  to  this  thing 
immediately.” 

A  visit  from  the  bishop  was,  of  late,  something  so  unusual, 
that  it  caused  Marguerite’s  cheek  to  flush  as  he  approached 
her  bedside. 

“  Benedicite !  ”  solemnly  pronounced  he,  laying  his  hand 

•4 

upon  her  head  :  “  how  is  it  with  thee,  my  daughter  ?  ” 

“  Death  is  not  far  off,”  replied  she,  feebly ;  “  I  feel  his 
approach.” 

“  And  where,  my  daughter,  does  your  heart  rest  in  this 
hour  ?  ”  . 

“  Upon  the  mother  of  my  Jesus.” 

“  Nobly  answered,”  said  he  ;  “  there  let  it  rest,  till  by  the 
intercession  of  the  saints  and  the  prayers  of  the  holy  church 
she  receives  you  to  her  bosom,  fit  companion  for  saints  and 
angels.” 

“  But  my  heart  is  vile,  most  holy  father.” 

“  Then  will  it  be  as  the  heart  of  Mary.  Let  no  doubts 
disturb  your  peace ;  for  will  not  the  church  take  care  of  its 
own?  and  you,  who  have  so  faithfully  served  it,  shall  be  borne 
in  its  sheltering  arms  to  the  very  gates  of  bliss !  ” 

“  Your  words,  most  holy  father,  inspire  me  with  hope  that 
even  such  as  I  may  be  saved.” 

“  Most  assuredly,  my  daughter ;  can  you  doubt  it  ?  But, 
first,  every  thought  and  desire  of  your  heart  must  be  freely 
confessed,  that  it  may  be  cleansed  from  all  its  impurity  and 
23* 


270 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


guilt,  Whenever  you  desire  and  are  fully  prepared  for 
this  important  act,  I  will  come  and  receive  your  words.” 

“  I  thank  thee,  holy  father.  I  will  lose  no  time  in  sending 
to  thee,  when  my  soul  is  ready.” 

“  Till  then,  farewell,  my  daughter.  God  be  with  thee !  ” 

Her  own  soul  —  or  those  dear  children !  Which  shall  be 
saved?  To  the  true  Catholic  there  is  no  medium  ground. 
The  heart  must  be  laid  bare  to  its  inquisitorial  dissector,  or 
the  soul  will  be  accursed  forever.  Marguerite  believed  this, 
for  she  knew  no  other  way.  What  wonder,  then,  that  long, 
torturing,  agonizing  struggles  rent  her  feeble  frame,  ere  she 
could  save,  at  such  a  price ,  objects  precious  even  as  they ! 
But  out  of  that  furnace  she  came  forth  purified  as  by  fire. 
The  secret  of  her  heart  shall  go  with  her  to  her  grave,  —  thus 
did  she  resolve.  And  who  shall  say  that  the  recording  angel, 
as  he  registered  that  solemn  expiation,  blotted  not  out  with  the 
penitent’s  tears  her  dark  page  of  guilt ! 

For  many  days  after  the  bishop’s  visit  the  poor  invalid 
seemed  rapidly  declining ;  yet  she  earnestly  cautioned  llalph 
to  breathe  not  a  word  of  it  to  his  master ;  “  For,”  said  she, 
“  the  last  great  work  of  my  life  is  yet  unfinished,  and  till  it  be 
accomplished  death  itself  will,  I  know,  stay  its  hand.” 

Balph  was  in  sad  perplexity.  That  Marguerite  should  die 

% 

without  a  priest  he  could  not  endure  to  think  of ;  but  he  feared 
to  disobey  her  wishes,  lest  it  should  somehow  jeopardize  the 
interests  of  his  “  birdie.”  Marguerite  deemed  it  safer  to  keep 
him  in  ignorance  of  the  details  of  her  plan  for  rescuing  the 
children ;  but  he  well  understood  that  the  little  missives  he  so 
faithfully,  though  stealthily,  conveyed  back  and  forth,  had 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


271 


some  reference  to  that  object,  else  he  would  not  have  so  toiled 
whole  nights  to  reach  a  distant  town  and  return  again  before 
his  absence  could  be  known.  Then,  too,  it  was  his  hand  that 
furnished  her  all  needed  materials  for  writing,  though  much 
wondering  why  she,  day  after  day,  kept  up  such  a  continual 
scratching  with  her  pen.  Yet  he  blindly  obeyed  all  her  direc¬ 
tions,  never  doubting  her  assurance  that  in  so  doing  he  was 
but  serving  his  “birdie.”  At  length,  after  one  of  his  nocturnal 
rambles,  Ralph  brought  her,  one  morning,  a  letter  whose  peru¬ 
sal,  though  it  agitated,  seemed  to  take  a  load  from  her  spirit. 
The  hectic  deepened  on  her  cheek,  the  eye  burned  with  new 
lustre,  as  she  pressed  it  to  her  bosom,  exclaiming,  “  Now  am  I 
ready !  Willingly,  0  blessed  Mother  of  Jesus,  do  I  yield  up 
my  soul  for  this  great  boon  !  ”  Hush  !  sees  she  not  that  cold 
shadow  stealing  silently  over  her  threshold?  Nearer  and 
nearer  it  approaches,  till  she.  feels  its  icy  breath,  and  in  terror 
cries,  “  0  Death,  spare  yet  a  little  longer  thy  victim !  In 
mercy  stay  thy  cold  hand  till  another  sun  shall  set,  that  my 
vow  may  be  accomplished !  ”  At  that  piercing  cry,  the 
shadow  paused,  turned  aside,  and,  with  uplifted  arm,  awaited 

r- 

the  implored  reprieve. 

“  Run  quickly  !  ”  said  the  dying  woman  to  Ralph,  who  stood 
near ;  “  bring  Charlie  to  my  bedside,  for  my  moments  are 
numbered,  and  I  have  much  to  say  to  him.” 

Ralph  obeyed ;  and,  through  the  kind  management  of 
Father  Ambrose,  quickly  returned  with  the  trembling  lad. 
Two  years  since,  in  that  very  room,  Charlie  had  parted  from 
Marguerite  ;  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  they  met,  —  met  in 
the  presence  of  death.  With  sobs  which  he  could  not  repress, 


% 


272 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


Charlie  kneeled  by  her  bedside,  and  covered  with  kisses  the 
white,  emaciated  hand. 

“  My  poor  boy,”  said  she,  motioning  him  to  rise,  “  we  have 
no  time  to  lose ;  a  few  hours  hence  and  these  lips  will  be 
closed ;  but,  0,  what  a  tale  must  they  unfold  to  your  innocent 
heart,  ere  death  seals  them  forever !  But,  first,  Charlie, 
promise  that  you  will  forgive  me,  —  forgive,  even  though  I 
have  blighted  your  young  life,  —  forgive  me  for  the'  sake  of 
the  reparation  I  now  seek  to  make !  ” 

“0,  Margery !  deal’  Margery,  don’t  talk  so !  ”  cried  Charlie, 
with  a  choking  voice.  “You  and  Ralph.  are  all  the  friends 
Myrtie  and  I  have  had,  and  when  you  are  gone  what  shall  we 
do?” 

“  Say  that  you  will  forgive  me,  Charlie !  ” 

“  If  there  is  anything  but  kindness  to  forgive,  I  do  from 
my  heart !  ”  replied  he. 

“  Now,  Ralph,”  continued  she,  “  good  and  kind  that  you 
are,  will  you  leave  us  a  while?  What  I  have  to  say  must  be 
heard  by  Charlie  alone.” 

“  Come  nearer,  dear  child !  your  sad,  care-worn  face  tells 
me  what  you  are  suffering.  I  foioiv,  Charlie,  —  and,  0,  I  know 
too  well !  —  what  our  darling  Myrtie  must  suffer  if  she  remains 
within  those  dreadful  walls  !  Do  you  remember  your  mother, 
Charlie?  ” 

“  I  don’t  remember  how  she  looked,”  he  answered ;  “  but  I 
have  dreamed  of  her  so  much  lately,  I  think  I  should  know 
her.  Why  do  you  ask  that  ?  ” 

“  Because  I  wish  you  to  be  like  her.  Listen  now,  Charlie, 
and  I  will  tell  you  what  I  remember  of  her.  When  I  first 
saw  her,  she  was  sitting  with  her  babe  in  her  arms,  and  you, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


273 


her  first-born,  was  by  her  side.  She  looked  like  an  angel ; 
and  I  trembled  in  her  presence,  as  I  thought  of  the  wicked 
errand  upon  which  I  had  come.  But  I  was  hardened  then; 
and,  besides,  the  wicked  man  whom  I  served  was  always 
near  to  urge  me  on  to  the  dreadful  deed.  It  was  I,  Charlie, 
who  helped  to  steal  }rou  from  your  beautiful  home  and  angel 
mother,  and  brought  you  oyer  the  cold  waters,  to  spend  your 
life  in  solitude  and  misery,  —  and  your  baby  sister  too.  Think 
how  it  must  have  broken  your  mother’s  heart  to  have  her 
treasures  thus  torn  from  her !  Long  and  faithfully  have  you 
been  sought  for  in  every  corner  of  the  earth ;  but  no  eye  can 
ever  penetrate  these  hidden  places,  and  she  knows  not  what 
has  been  the  fate  o'f  her  darlings.  My  breath  fails  me ;  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  how  your  young,  innocent  lives  have  brought 
me  to  repentance;  but,  lest  I  should  not  have  strength,  I 
have  written  it  all  in  this  ”  (handing  him  a  package) ;  “  and 
now,  before  it  is  too  late,  let  me  tell  you  that  Marguerite, 
guilty  and  faithless  as  she  has  been,  has  done  what  she  could 
to  repair  the  great  wrong.  Yes,  Charlie,  I  have  given  up 

my  soul  to  restore  you  to  }Tour  mother - Water!  quick! 

quick  !  I  faint !  ”  said  the  sufferer,  falling  back  on  her  pillow. 

Pale  and  affrighted,  Charlie  sprang  to  her  assistance, 
entreating,  passionately,  that  she  would  not  leave  him  thus ; 
that,  ere  death  claimed  her,  she  would,  in  pity,  return  and 
save  her  lost  children. 

Those  accents  of  entreaty  reached  her  heart ;  and,  though 
death’s  relentless  fingers  were  grasping  their  prey,  she  mur¬ 
mured,  incoherently,  through  her  thickening  breath,  “  This 
letter  —  take  it  —  go  to  him  —  he  will  save  you  —  God  will 
bless  you  —  I  know  it  —  don’t  tell  Ilalph  —  tell  Myrtie  —  I 


274 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


died  for  you  —  that  package  —  for  your  mother  —  what  do 
I  see  —  Jesus  will  have  mercy  on  me  —  0,  glorious!  glori¬ 
ous  !  ” 

Charlie  was  alone  with  the  dead  !  Affectionately  but  rev¬ 
erently  closing  those  eyes  which  had  ever  beamed  kindly  on 
him,  he  bent  over  the  still  form,  and  paid  his  tearful  tribute 
to  her  memory.  Then,  stilling  his  grief,  in  that  silent  pres¬ 
ence  he  opened  Marguerite's  legacy  —  his  passport  home  / 

■ 

The  letter  which  she  had  -given  him  with  her  dying  breath 
caused  his  heart  to  leap  wildly,  as  hope,  strong  and  earnest, 
sprang  up  within  him.  Thus  it  ran  : 

“  My  dear  Sister:  You,  whom  we  have  for  twenty  years 
mourned  as  dead,  can  scarcely  imagine  the  surprise  your  letter 
caused  me.  It  came  as  from  the  grave,  for  you  neither  tell 
me  where  you  are,  nor  whether  I  shall  ever  see  you  again. 
0,  why  will  }7ou  keep  yourself  thus  estranged?  Our  hearts 
and  arms  are  open  to  receive  you.  I  shall  never  forgive  those 
priests  for  enticing  you  into  a  convent ;  and,  could  I  find  you 
now,  I  would  snatch  you  from  their  grasp.  To  show  you  that 
I  still  love  you,  my  sister,  and  not  without  the  hope  that  it 
may  win  you  back  to  me,  I  will  undertake  your  mission, 
though,  let  me  tell  you,  it  is  a  dangerous  one,  requiring  both 
ingenuity  and  despatch.  My  vessel  will  be  ready  to  sail  nest 
Monday ;  but,  as  it  --may  require  a  longer  time  for  your  pro¬ 
teges  to  effect  their  escape,  I  will  wait  for  them,  holding 
myself  in  readiness  to  slip  the  cable  at  very  short  notice. 
Enclosed  you  will  find  minute  directions  how  and  where  to 
find  me.  If  the  boy  will  follow  these,  he  will  meet  with  no 
difficulty ;  but  the  girl  I  should  think  would  need  some  one  to 
help  her  along.  You  do  not  tell  me  who  they  are,  or  where 
bound,  except. to  New  York ;  and,  perhaps,  it  is  best  I  should 
not  know;  but -be  assured  they  shall  receive  every  attention 
from  me,  on  my  sister’s  account. 

“What  more  can  I  say  to  induce  you  to  return  to  us? 
Your  uncouth  but  trusty  messenger  will  absolutely  give  me 


ANNA  CLATTON. 


275 


no  tidings  of  you ;  and  I  can  only  trust  that,  on  my  return, 
your  gratitude,  if  not  affection,  will  bring  you  to  me.  Then 
only  peace  and  happiness  will  be  restored  to  your  brother’s 
heart.” 

Again  and  again  did  Charlie  read  this  precious  letter,  and 
the  accompanying  note  of  directions,  till  every  word  was  in¬ 
delibly  stamped  in  his  memory.  Then,  opening  the  larger 
package  Marguerite  had  designated  for  his  mother,  he  found 
it  contained  his  own  and  Myrtie’s  story,  from  the  moment 
they  were  torn  from  her  till  now.  Enclosed  with  the  rest 
was  a  beautifully  embroidered  purse,  containing  all  the 
earthly  possessions  of  her  who  had,  year  by  year,  hoarded 
them  for  this  very  purpose.  Charlie  wept  at  this  last  token 
of  repentance,  and,  carefully  enclosing  it,  together  with  the 
invaluable  papers,  in  a  small  parcel,  he  wrote  to  Myrtie  to 
guard  them  sacredly,  and,  by  the  memory  of  their  blessed 
mother,  to  effect,  in  some  way,  her  escape  to  the  place  desig¬ 
nated  in  the  note ;  that  the  next  Monday  he  would  meet  her 
there,  if  alive,  did  she  but  say  she  would  go.  Then,  turning 
towards  the  face  of  the  dead,  to  read  her  silent  approval  from 
those  pallid  lips,  he  breathed  one  long,  last  adieu,  and  left 
forever  the  cottage  which  had  been  his  prison-house. 

“  How  is  she  now  ?  ”  asked  Ralph,  who  had  been  watching 
for  him  near  the  garden. 

“  She  has  gone  to  her  rest,  Ralph.  Bury  her  there  in  the 
little  spot  where  Myrtie  and  I  used  to  play  together,  and 
keep  the  flowers  blooming  on  her  grave,  Ralph ;  for  nobly  has 
she  died.” 

The  big  tears  dropped  from  Ralph’s  eyes  as  he  answered, 


276 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  I  will,  Charlie ;  but  what  ’ll  now  become  of  you  and  my 
birdie  ?  ” 

“  Good,  kind  Ralph,  what  a  friend  have  you  been  to  us ! 
You  shall  never  be  forgotten.  Here  is  a  package,  Ralph,  as 
precious  as  your  birdie’s  life ;  will  you  carry  it  to  her,  and 
be  sure  that  no  one  sees  it  ?  ” 

“  That  I  will,”  said -Ralph,  “  this  very  night.” 

“  And  be  sure  you  bring  me  an  answer,  Ralph.  I  will  be 
at  that  little  place  in  the  wall  where  we  met  before.5' 

“  Never  fear  to  trust  Ralph  Riley,”  said  the  honest  fellow, 
starting  off  at  once,  and  drawing  his  coat-sleeve  across  his 
eyes;  “  he ’d  give  up  his  old  life  now,  if  he  could  save  his 
birdie.” 


i 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


“  I  am  a  woman  !  nay,  a  woman  wronged  !  ” 

Savage, 

“  Ten  thousand  curses  fasten  on  ’em  both  ! 

Now  will  this  woman,  with  a  single  glance. 

Undo  what  I ’ve  been  laboring  all  this  while  !  ” 

Addison. 

“  I  will  be  there !  ”  Such  was  Myrtie’s  simple  response 
to  Charlie’s  earnest  appeal ;  but  how  fraught  with  meaning 
were  those  little  words,  speaking  courage  and  hope  to  his 
heart!  Yes,  Myrtie  would  be  there,  he  did  not  doubt,  though 
by  what  means  he  could  not  divine ;  and  he,  too,  must  be 
there ,  difficult  as  seemed  any  way  of  escape.  How  intensely 
was  every  thought  bent  on  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose ! 
Plan  after  plan  was  rejected,  and  still,  as  the  time  drew  nigh, 
the  poor  boy  was  more  distracted  than  ever.  Father  Am¬ 
brose,  in  his  sympathy,  attributed  Charlie’s  dejection  to  the 
loss  of  Marguerite,  and  strove  by  added  kindness  to  soothe 
his  heart. 

“  Charlie,”  said  he,  one  evening,  “  I  noticed  at  vespers, 
to-day,  you  looked  more  troubled  than  usual ;  can  I  do  any¬ 
thing  to  cheer  you  ?  ” 

24 


278 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  You  have  already  loaded  me  with  kindness,”  replied 
Charlie,  gratefully;  “I  know  of  no  more  that  you  can  do, 
unless — unless  —  ”  and  he  hesitated. 

“  What  is  it,  my  dear  boy  ?  You  can  surely  speak  without 
reserve  to  me.” 

“  I  should  so  like  to  visit  Marguerite’s  grave !  ”  said  Charlie ; 
“  she  was  such  a  friend  to  me  and  Myrtie  !  ” 

Father  Ambrose  thought  a  moment,  and  then,  without  a 
suspicion  of  the  boy’s  real  design,  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

“  I  am  to  be  on  guard,  to-night,  and,  if  it  will  be  any  com¬ 
fort  for  you  to  visit  her  grave,  you  can  do  so  without  being 
noticed.”  ,  *> 

“  0,  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times !  ”  cried  Charlie,  as  a 
bright  gleam  of  hope  flashed  into  his  heart.  “  You  could  not 
confer  a  greater  kindness.  How  long  will  it  be  safe  for  me 
to  stay  ?  ” 

“  As  long  as  you  wish,  my  dear  boy.  I  will  let  you  in.” 
Charlie  could  scarce  refrain  from  embracing  him  in  his  joy, 
as  he  thus  saw  the  way  open  for  his  escape.  But,  wisely 
checking  himself,  he  said,  with  a  sad  tone,  “  Poor  Margery ! 
she  was  all  the  friend  Myrtie  and  I  had  for  many  years !  ” 

“  There,”  thought  Ambrose,  “  I  was  right  in  conjecturing 
that  her  death  caused  such  a  change  in  him.  I  must  try  to 
favor  him  more.”  Then  charging  Charlie  not  to'  hasten  home 
till  he  was  ready,  he  left  him,  on  good  thoughts  intent. 

“  Perhaps  it  is  wrong  to  deceive  him  so,”  said  Charlie  to 
himself,  when  he  was  alone ;  “  but,  after  all,  it  may  make  him 
less  trouble  than  to  know  all  about  it.  Farewell,  good,  kind 
Father  Ambrose !  the  prayers  of  the  boy  you  have  befriended 
will  ever  follow  you !  ” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


279 


To  avoid  suspicion,  Charlie  took  nothing  with  him.  But, 
arraying  himself  in  the  coarse,  homely  garb  provided  for 
him,  he  passed,  with  cautious  steps,  through  the  private 
entrance  Ambrose  had  left  unfastened  for  him,  and,  turning 
in  an  opposite  direction  from  the  cottage,  crept  along  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall  till  he  gained  safely  the  highway.  0, 
how  swiftly  bounded  his  feet  o’er  the  glad  earth,  as  with  a 
joyous  heart  he  traced  the  way  pointed  out  by  Marguerite’s 
brother  !  What  though  thirty  long,  weary  miles  lay  before 
him.  “  Mother,  Myrtie,  and  home  !  ”  was  the  watchword  that 
lured  on  his  unfaltering  steps  through  that  lonely  midnight 
walk.  Press  on,  brave  boy  !  thy  winged  guide  will  bear  thee 
safely  along  to  the  haven  of  thy  hopes ! 

But  Myrtie,  —  gentle,  loving  Myrtie,  —  how  can  she  es¬ 
cape  the  sleepless  vigilance  which  surrounds  her  ?  Not  even 
to  look  on  the  cold,  lifeless  face  of  her  childhood’s  guardian, 
was  she  suffered  to  pass  those  prison-walls,  so  strictly  did 
they  guard  their  treasure.  But  an  eye  which  bolts  nor  dun¬ 
geons  can  avert,  though  they  heed  it  not,  is  now  looking  into 
that  orphaned  heart,  with  power  to  pity  and  save.  Whence 
but  from  Him  came  the  faith  and  hope  which  traced  those 
simple  lines  of  promise,  “  I  will  be  there”? 

When  Balph  gave  Myrtie  the  package  Charlie  had  in¬ 
trusted  to  him,  she  flew  at  once  with  it  to  Sister  Agnes’  cell. 

“  A  letter  from  Charlie  !  ”  exclaimed  the  overjoyed  girl ; 
“only  think,  Sister  Agnes,  a  letter  from  Charlie! — the  first 
one  he  ever  wrote  me ;  and  Balph  is  going  to  wait  for  me  to 
answer  it.  IIow  can  1  ever  tell  him  how  much  I  love  him  — 
dear,  dear  Charlie !  ”  And  she  tore  open  the  precious  missive 
as  she  stood  by  the  nun’s  pallet,  and  together  they  devoured 


280 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


each,  word  and  line  of  that  earnest,  agonizing  appeal.  Myrtie 
rubbed  her  eyes  to  assure  herself  she  was  not  dreaming,  and 
Sister  Agnes  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  in  thoughtful  silence. 

“  Well,  Myrtie,”  said,,she,  at  length,  “  what  reply  will  you 
give  your  noble  brother  ?  ” 

“  I  know  not,  Sister  Agnes,  and  yet  I  think  I  shall  go.” 

The  nun  looked  up  with  astonishment  into  the  face  of  the 
young  girl,  radiant  with  hope,  till,  catching  the  inspiration, 
she  exclaimed,  “  Yes,  Myrtie,  I  believe  you  will ;  tell  him 
so.” 

Tearing  a  blank  leaf  from  her  prayer-book,  Myrtie  traced 
with  a  pencil  those  talismanic  words,  and  gave  them  to  Ralph, 
who,  poor  fellow,  little  knew  the  import  of  the  message  he  was 
conveying.  Charlie  had  cautioned  her  m  his  note  not  to  re¬ 
veal  the  matter  to  her  old  friend ;  so  she  suffered  him  to  depart 
without  telling  him  that  he  would  not  see  her  again.  But 
the  streaming  eye  and  trembling  voice  with  which  she  bade 
him  farewell  (in  her  heart  a  last  one)  lingered  many  a  day  in 
Ralph’s  memory,  causing  the  answering  tears  to  roll  down  his 
cheek  as  often  as  he  thought  of  her  emotion. 

When  Myrtie  again  sought  Sister  Agnes,  she  found  her  with 
flushed  cheek  and  burning  brow,  intensely  absorbed  in  the 
story  Marguerite  had  written  for  their  mother.  0,  what  a 
strange  revelation  was  there  made  of  her  own  escape  from  a 
perjured  and  dishonorable  marriage  with  the  only  one  she  had 
ever  loved — and  that  one  the  father  of  her  dear  Myrtie !  How 
she  longed  to  see  the  patient,  suffering  woman  who  had  been 
Charles  Duncan’s  wife  !  —  the  woman  she  had  unconsciously 
wronged  in  loving  him !  What  an  additional  motive  she  had 
now  to  seek  some  way  to  restore  Myrtie  to  her  mother’s  arms ! 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


281 


And  Myrtie,  too  !  —  how  her  cheeks  tingled  at  the  mention  of 
her  father’s  perfidy,  little  suspecting,  though,  that  the  proud 
Eniilie  De  Vere  and  Sister  Agnes  were  one! 

All  night  long  the  feeble  nun  tossed  restlessly  upon  her 
hard  pallet.  Visions  of  the  past,  in  all  their  dread  reality, 
cauie  floating  by ;  while  the  dim  future,  with  its  unknown 
terrors,  stood  like  some  gaunt  spectre,  ready  to  clutch  its 
prey!  One  moment  she  seemed  swiftly  gliding  through  the 
air,  encircled  by  Myrtie’s  arms,  transformed  into  an  angel’s ; 
and  then  from  behind  some  dark  cloud  would  peer  forth  a 
Satanic  face,  in  which  she  could  trace  the  lineaments  of  her 
perfidious  lover,  when  instantly  she  began  to  descend  lower, 
lower,  lower,  till,  in  her  fright,  she  woke  to  find  herself  alone 
in  her  cheerless  cell ! 

Morning’s  gray  light  streamed  through  the  aperture  which 
served  for  a  -window ;  but  Sister  Agnes  was  too  feeble  to  rise. 
Carefully  concealing  Myrtie’s  papers  about  her  person,  she 
summoned  the  portress,  and  requested  the  presence  of  the 
mother  superior.  Her  spirit  was  stirred  within  her.  Save 
Myrtie  she  must ,  though  to  accomplish  it  deception  and  fraud 
were  necessary.  To  deceive  such  characters  as  she  had  to 
deal  with,  for  such  a  purpose,  seemed  to  her  both  right  and 
just.  When,  therefore,  that  worthy  personage  appeared,  in 
no  very  pleasant  mood,  Sister  Agnes  accosted  her  in  the  most 
humble  manner,  begging  her  forgiveness  for  all  the  trouble 
she  had  occasioned  her. 

“  What  good  does  all  your  penitence  do,”  answered  the 
mother,  sharply,  “  so  long  as  you  refuse  to  obey  the  first 
command  of  the  church  ?  ” 

“  That  is  just  what  I  wished  to  see  you  about,  this  morning,” 

24* 


282 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


said  the  nun.  “  It  has  been  revealed  to  me  to-night  that  I 
ought  no  longer  to  withhold  my  substance  from  the  church.  I 
feel  more  than  ever  that  my  life  is  rapidly  wasting  away,  and 
what  I  do  must  be  done  quickly.  Therefore,  if  you  please, 
holy  mother,  I  will  attend  to  making  my  will  without  delay.” 

The  superior  was  so  taken  by  surprise  with  this  change 
in  Sister  Agnes,  that  she  scarcely  knew  what  to  reply.  It 
seemed  highly  important  to  -secure  the  object  nowy  lest  she 
should  lose  the  effect  of  this  sudden  excitement  (as  she  deemed 
it)  of  the  sick  nun’s  disordered  imagination.  But  yet,  in 
Father  Bernaldi’s  absence,  how  could  she  manage  it? 

“  You  do  not  reply,”  continued  Sister  Agnes ;  “  perhaps 
you  deem  me  unworthy  to  make  this  offering.” 

“It  is  not  that,”  said  the  superior,  in  a  gentle  tone ; 
“your  repentance,  though  it  comes  late,  will  doubtless  be 
accepted.  But  he  who  should  have  the  direction  of  this  affair 
is  absent,  and  I  scarcely  know  how  to  proceed.” 

“  You  mean  Father  Bernaldi.  How  long  will  he  be  away?” 

“  lie  thought  when  he  left  it  might  be  a  month ;  but  he 
may  come  sooner.” 

Sister  Agnes  could  scarce  contain  her  joy  at  this  intelli¬ 
gence;  it  made  her  plan  so  much  easier.  “  Heaven  knows,” 
cried  she,  anxiously,  “  whether  I  shall  be  alive  on  his  return. 
Is  there  no  -one  to  whom  this  matter  can  be  intrusted  ?  ” 

“  Your  zeal  is  commendable,”  replied  the  mother,  approv¬ 
ingly,  “  and  I  will  consult  the  bishop  at  once.” 

“  There  is  one,”  continued  Sister  Agnes,  “  if  he  is  still  liv¬ 
ing,  who  knows  more  definitely  the  extent  of  my  possessions 
than  I  do.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  I  could  define  them  without 
his  assistance.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


283 


“  Who  is  that  ?  ” 

“  It  is  Mr.  Stuart,  the  attorney  who  drew  up  my  deeds.  I 
think  he  now  has  them  in  his  possession,  and  I  should  like 
to  show  him  with  what  a  hearty  good-will  I  give  them  away.” 

“  I  will  think  of  this  matter,”  said  the  superior,  rising  to  go, 
“  and,  now  that  you  have  come  to  a  right  decision,  I  shall 
have  you  removed  at  once  to  more  comfortable  quarters,  and 
a  nurse  provided  for  you.  Who  should  you  prefer  ?  ” 

“  You  are  too  kind,  most  excellent  mother !  I  now  sec  my 
great  error  in  not  sooner  obeying  you;  but  you  shall  lose 
nothing  by  it,  I  assure  you.  Perhaps  you  can  best  spare  the 
little  girl,  and  she  will  do  for  me  at  present.” 

“  I  fear  she  is  not  old  enough  to  take  proper  care  of  you,” 
interrupted  the  mother,  kindly. 

“  Let  her  try  a  few  days,  and  see.” 

“  Well,  if  you  prefer  it,  she  shall.”  , 

Sister  Agnes  saw  through  this  veil  of  hypocrisy,  and  though 
at  another  time  she  would  have  treated  it  with  the  contempt 
it  deserved,  she  now  determined  to  make  use  of  it  for  Myrtie’s 
sake,  —  yea,  even  to  become  a  deceiver  herself. 

The  superior  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  in  a  few  hours 
Sister  Agnes  found  herself  laid  in  a  nice,  clean  bed,  in  one  of 
their  pleasantest  rooms,  with  Myrtle  at  her  side,  as  nurse.  She, 
dear  girl,  was  overjoyed  at  the  change,  though  she  did  not 
understand  why  it  was  done ;  and  Sister  Agnes  thought  it  not 
best  to  inform  her  of  her  plans  till  she  could  be  more  sure 
of  their  success;  but  she  often  wiped  away  her  tears,  and, 
smoothing  her  bright  ringlets,  assured  her  she  should  be  saved. 

The  morning  after  these  changes,  Sister  Agnes  was  not  sur¬ 
prised  at  an  early  visit  from  the  superior ;  for  she  rightly 


284 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


conjectured  that  little  else  would  claim  the  woman’s  attention 
till  the  momentous  question  of  her  will  was  settled. 

“How  do  you  find  yourself,  this  morning,  my  daughter?” 
said  she,  in  her  blandest  tone,  approaching  the  bedside. 

“  I  have  n’t  rested  so  well  for  many  a  night,  thanks  to  your 
nice,  soft  bed,”  replied  the  nun;  “  but  still  I  feel  that  I  am 
fast  going.” 

“  And  how  is  your  mind  ?  ” 

“  Clear  and  firm,  especially  since  the  holy  resolution  I 
made  yesterday.” 

“  Then  you  do  not  waver  ?  ” 

“  By  no  means ;  on  the  contrary,  I  was  never  more  deter¬ 
mined  to  do  right  than  now.”  .  _ 

“  I  am  thankful  to  hear  you  express  yourself  so  fully,  for  I 
came  to  talk  with  you  on  that  subject.  I  have  seen  his  holy 
reverence,  the  bishop,  and  he  has  no  objection  to  the  course 
you  proposed ;  indeed,  he  thinks  it  a  wise  one,  provided  you 
are  steadfast  in  your  determination,  and  will  not  be  influenced 
by  any  worldly  opposition.” 

“  Do  not  fear  for  me,  holy  mother.  The  whole  world  could 
not  move  me,  so  strongly  have  I  set  my  heart  upon  this  deed 
of  justice.” 

“Well  spoken,  my  daughter!  You  will  therefore  be  pre¬ 
pared  to  meet  the  person  you  named  at  eleven  o’clock.  He 
has  been  notified,  and  will  be  here  then.  I  trust  I  do  not 
need  to  remind  you  of  the  duties  you  owe  us,  in  any  commu¬ 
nication  you  may  make  to  him.” 

“You  can  trust  me,”  replied  Sister  Agnes,  striving  to  con¬ 
ceal  the  agitation  she  felt  at  the  approaching  interview. 

Eleven  o’clock  arrived,  and  the  pale  nun  lay  almost  motion- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


285 


less  on  her  pillow.  She  was  again  to  see  a  familiar  face  — 
one,  too,  who  had  been  her  father 's  friend,  and,  but  for  her  own 
blind  folly,  might  still  have  been  hers.  Would  he  know  her? 
Could  he  recognize,  in  her  poor,  emaciated  form  and  shrunken 
face,  the  once  bright  and  beautiful  Emilie  De  Yere  ?  Would 
he  tell  her  of  her  father’s  last  days,  and,  perhaps,  confirm 
Bernaldi’s  dreadful  report,  that  he  died  unreconciled  to  her  ? 
Would  he  —  but  here  her  heart  almost  -ceased  to  beat,  as  the 
sound  of  footsteps  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  the  mother  su¬ 
perior  entered  her  room,  accompanied  by  the  stranger.  Yes 
—  it  was  he.  Through  her  half-closed  eyes  she  could  see  that 
he  wore  the  same  look,  though  age  had  furrowed  his  cheek 
and  wrinkled  his  brow.  0,  how  her  heart  longed  to  unburden 
itself  to  him  !  But  her  first  thoughts  must  be  given  to  Myrtie ; 
and  with  this  feeling  she  unclosed  her  eyes,  as  if  just  awaking 
from  sleep.  The  mother  softly  moved  to  her  side,  and  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  “  He  is  here  ;  are  you  ready  ?  ” 

“  I  am,”  replied  she,  turning  her  face  towards  the  attorney. 

He  started  as  he  met  her  look,  and  a  painful  expression 
crossed  his  face,  as  of  some  unpleasant  remembrance ;  but, 
unsuspicious  of  the  truth,  he  advanced  towards  her  and  said, 

“  The  lady  superior  tells  me,  ma’am,  that  you  have  a  desire 
for  my  services  in  executing  your  will ;  shall  I  wait  upon  you 
now  ?  ” 

“  If  you  please,  sir,”  was  the  feeble  reply.  Then,  turning  to 
the  mother,  she  added,  “  Will  it  not  be  better  for  me  to 
confer  with  the  gentleman  alone ;  the  act  will  seem  more 
free.”  .  - 

The  superior  winced  a  little  at  this  proposal,  but  she  could 


286 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


make  no  plausible  objection,  and  she  therefore  reluctantly 
withdrew. 

“  Now,  sir,”  said  the  nun,  summoning  all  her  strength, 
“  look  at  me ;  have  you  ever  seen  me  before  ?  ” 

“  I  was  half-persuaded,  just  now,  that  I  had,”  he  replied ; 
“there  is  something  familiar  about  your  face,  and  yet  I  do 
not  know  you.” 

“  Well  may  you  say  that,  for  I  do  not  know  myself!  Say, 
can  you  recognize  in  these  wan  features  aught  of  one  you 
knew  as  Emilie  De  Yere  ?  ” 

The  attorney  gazed,'  with  a  startled  look,  into  her  face,  as 
she  uttered  that  name,  and,  seizing  her  hand,  exclaimed, 

“  Can  it  be  possible  ?  Has  the  grave  given  up  its  dead, 
that  I  thus  see  you  again,  Emilie,  daughter  of  my  best 
friend?  ” 

“  An  unworthy  daughter  of  the  noblest  of  fathers  !  ”  added 
she. 

“  And  yet  he  blamed  you  not,  but  died  with  warm  blessings 
on  his  lips  for  his  misguided  daughter.” 

“  Was  it  indeed  so  ?  ”  cried  she,  eagerly.  “  0,  what  a 
weight  of  sorrow  do  you  lift  from  my  heart !  They  told  me 
that  he  cursed  me  !  ” 

“  Who  told  you  so  ?  ” 

“  Father  Bernaldi.” 

“  The  wretch  !  — When  your  father  pleaded  so  piteously  to 
see  you  once  more,  that  he  might  bless  you,  that  priest  said 
you  had  cast  off  all  earthly,  attachments,  and,  the  better  to 
escape  your  own  father’s  importunity,  had  taken  the  veil 
in  a  distant  convent.  I  have  supposed  for  a  long  time  that 
you  were  dead,  as  all  efforts  to  learn  your  fate  have  been  futile.” 


287 


* 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

Sister  Agnes,  overcome  with  emotion,  sank  back  upon  her 
pillow.  Of  what  dark  treachery  had  she  been  the  victim ! 
While  pining  under  a  father’s  supposed  displeasure,  and  long¬ 
ing  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet  for  forgiveness,  that  father 
had  been  represented  to  her  as  inexorable  in  his  determination 
not  to  see  or  forgive  her  ;  and  death  had  come  between  them 
to  set  his  silent  seal  upon  that  falsehood. 

“  What  were  your  intentions,  Emilie,  in  sending  for  me  ?  ” 
asked  the  attorney,  breaking  the  painful  silence.  “Are  you 
ready  to  bequeath  your  property  to  these  people,  who  have 
thus  deceived  you  ?  ” 

“  Never,  never !  ”  warmly  exclaimed  the  nun  ;  “  even  though 
I  had  not  now  discovered  their  perfidy,  I  had  other  thoughts, 
though  they  must  not  know  it,  —  ’t  would  be  my  death-war¬ 
rant,  at  once.  0,  sir,  your  heart  can  never  conceive  what  a 
living  death  I  have  suffered  in  this  place  !  ” 

“You  must  leave  it  immediately,  Lady  Emilie,  and  be 
restored  to  your  possessions  and  your  home.” 

“  No,  sir,  that  can  never  be,  and  I  do  not  now  wish  it.  The 
sands  of  my  life  are  nearly  run,  and  with  the  few  days  that 
are  left  me  I  wish  to  make  restitution  where  I  have  wronged, 
and  save  from  an  unholy  grasp  a  lovely  and  innocent  vic¬ 
tim.”  . 

In  a  subdued  tone  Sister  Agnes  then  told  him  the  sad  tale 
of  the  orphans  —  of  their  parentage,  of  her  near  approach  to 
crime  in  wedding  Sir  Charles,  of  her  own  intense  desire  to 
save  them  from  the  dreadful  fate  which  awaited  them,  and  to 
restore  them  to  the  arms  of  that  bereaved  mother.  She  also 
told  him  of  the  opportunity  which  now  offered  for  their  es¬ 
cape,  and  begged,  with  an  earnestness  which  could  not  be 


resisted,  that  he  would  devise  some  plan  to  aid  her  in  effect- 

& 

ins:  it.  His  heart  was  moved,  as  indeed  it  could  not  otherwise 
be,  and  he  promised  to  comply  with  her  wishes  as  far  as  it 
was  possible. 

“Now,”-  said  he,  “  let  us  proceed  to  the  business  for  which 
I  was  summoned,  or  suspicions  may  be  aroused  which  will 
thwart  our  plans.”  So  saying,  he  unfolded  the  papers  he  had 
brought  with  him,  and,  spreading  them  about  on  the  table,  he 
rang  a  little  bell,  and  requested  the  presence  of  the  superior. 

“  I  find,”  said  he,  with  a  business-like  air,  as  she  came  in, 
“  that  I  have  not  the  necessary  documents  for  making  out  this 
instrument.  Had  I  known  that  the  daughter  of  Lord  De 
Vere  wished  my  services,  I  could  have  brought  her  papers, 
which  are  in  my  possession  ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  await  your  further 
orders  as  to  the  time  for  another  interview.” 

The  superior  eyed  him  closely  as  he  said  this,  but  she 
could  detect  no  emotion  in  his  countenance,  and  she  therefore 
replied, 

“  I  leave  that  to  you,  sir.  In  Sister  Agnes’  feeble  condi¬ 
tion,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  hs  well  to  have  these  matters  all 
concluded  speedily,  that  her  mind  may  be  perfectly  at  rest.” 

“  I  agree  with  you  entirely,  madam,  and,  if  you  please,  will 
wait  upon  you  again  to-morrow,  at  two  o’clock.” 

“  Yery  well,  sir;  we  shall  expect  you.” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

•*  Press  on  !  There ’s  no  such  word  as  fail ! 

Press  nobly  on  !  the  goal  is  near  ! 

The  wisdom  of  the  present  hour 
Makes  up  for  follies  past  and  gone  ; 

To  weakness  strength  succeeds,  and  power 

Prom  frailty  springs.  —  Press  on  !  press  on  !  ” 

“  To-day,  dear  Myrtle,”  said  Sister  Agnes,  as  her  young 
nurse  hovered  around  her  couch,  with  pale  and  anxious  brow, 
“  to-day  he  has  promised  to  effect  some  means  for  your 
escape ;  and,  0,  how  rejoiced  shall  I  be  to  know  that  you  are 
far  beyond  pursuit !  ” 

“  It  will  be  hard  to  leave  you  alone,  Sister  Agnes,”  replied 
Myrtie. 

“  I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  dear  girl,”  said  the  nun,  affection¬ 
ately  ;  “  but  the  little  life  there  is  left  in  me  will  soon  be 
exhausted ;  and  how  much  more  calmly  shall  I  go  to  rest, 
knowing  you  are  safe  !  ” 

“  Noble,  generous  heart !  ”  murmured  Myrtie  ;  “  Heaven 
will  be  your  reward  !  ” 

“  I  have  written  a  few  lines  to  your  mother,  Myrtie., 
and  enclosed  them  in  your  package.  They  are  for  her  eye 

alone.” 


25 


290 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“Mother!”  repeated  the  fair  girl,  —  “mother!  Can  it 
be  I  shall  ever  know  that  name?  ’T  would  be  joy  too 
great !  ” 

“  Yes,  Myrtie,”  said  the  nun,  with  enthusiasm,  you  will 
know  and  love  that  dear  being,  —  my  heart  tells  me  that  you 
will.  But,  when  her  warm  and  loving  smiles  gladden  your  life, 
do  not  forget  poor  Sister  Agnes !  ” 

“  Forget  you  —  never  !  ”  cried  Myrtie,  with  streaming 
eyes.  “  If  I  am  ever  blest  with  a  mother’s  love,  she  shall 
know  that  to  you  we  owe  the  mutual  gift ;  your  name  shall  be 
ever  on  our  lips  !  ” 

“  Dear  girl,  how  you  have  twined  yourself  about  my  heart 
since  I  first  knew  you  !  Keep  near  me  to-day,  Myrtie,  for  it 
is  our  last.” 

The  affectionate  girl  threw  her  arms  about  the  nun’s  neck, 
and,  with  sweet,  winning  words,  sought  to  beguile  the  painful¬ 
ness  of  their  parting.  But,  within,  her  heart  was  struggling 
with  fear  and  uncertainty.  What  if  all  their  plans  should 
fail,  and  her  bright  picture  of  home  and  its  joys  prove  an  illu¬ 
sion  !  0,  how  dark  would  seem,  the  future,  after  such  a 

foretaste  ! 


Two  o’clock  came ;  and,  punctual  to  his  -appointment, 
the  attorney  was  ushered  into  the  lady  superior’s  private 
parlor,  accompanied  by  the  lad  who  brought  his  bundle  of 
papers. 

“  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,”  said  she,  “  before 
permitting  another  interview  with  Sister  Agnes.” 

“  I  am  most  happy  to  confer  with  you,  madam,”  he  replied, 
very  calmly. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


291 


“  She  has,  of  course,  informed  you  who  she  is  ?  ” 

“  Yes  ;  that  was  necessary.” 

“  Did  she  give  you  any  intimations  that  she  would  like  to 
return  again  to  the  world  ?  ” 

“  On  the  contrary,  madam,  she  averred  that  she  remained 
here  of  her  own  free  will  and  accord,  and  would  upon  no 
consideration  leave  you.  These,  I  am  happy  to  inform  you, 
were  her  words.” 

“  And  you  would  testify  to  them,  if  necessary  ?  ” 

“  Certainly,  madam.” 

“  I  am  thankful,  I  assure  you,  that  she  speaks  thus  of  the 
house  where  she  has  spent  so  many  happy  years.  I  did  not 
know  but  her  declining  health  might  affect  her  mind 
otherwise ;  it  would  be  a  great  trial  to  part  with  her  now.” 

“  No  doubt  of  it,  madam ;  she  is  a  very  lovely  person.” 

“  So  she  is,  sir ;  and  she  seems  so  grateful  for  all  we  have 
done !  Has  she  fold  you  how  she  means  to  dispose  of  her 
property  ?  ” 

“  She  has  intimated  something  of  the  kind  to  me ;  and  I 
think  you  will  have  no  cause  to  be  displeased,  madam.” 

“  0,  we  have  no  wish  to  control  her  in  this  matter,”  replied 
the  superior,  delighted  at  this  insinuation.  “You  see,  sir, 
that  she  acts  freely,  and  without  even  our  knowledge.” 

“  I  see,  madam ;  and  allow  me  to  say  I  highly  approve  of 
your  course.  Shall  I  now  proceed  to  her  room  ?  ” 

“  If  you  please,  sir,”  said  the  superior,  leading  the  way. 

Myrtie  was  with  Sister  Agnes  as  they  entered  the  room, 
and  the  imploring  look  wTith  which  she  met  his  gaze  reached 
the  lawyer’s  heart.  In  a  stiff,  formal  manner  he  bade  them 
“good-afternoon,”  and  then,  turning  to  the  superior  he  said, 


292 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Perhaps  it  will  be  as  well,  madam,  for  us  to  continue  our 
interviews  in  a  private  manner;  —  however, it  is  as  you  say.” 

“  I  certainly  have  no  objection,”  she  replied,  promptly, 
reassured  by  his  recent  confidence ;  and,  motioning  Myrtie  to 
follow,  she  left  the  room. 

“  0,  tell  me  at  once,  sir!”  cried  the  agitated  nun.  “  Is 
there  any  chance  for  her  ?  —  can  you  save  her  ?  ” 

“  I  think  so ;  at  least,  I  hope  so,”  replied  the  lawyer. 
5‘  But  it  will  be  necessary  to  keep  yourself  very  calm,  Lady 
Emilie,  to  avoid  suspicion.  Almost  everything  depends  on 
presence  of  mind,  now.” 

“  Let  me  but  know  there  is  hope  for  her,  and  I  will  be  as 
impervious  as  marble,”  was  her  impassioned  answer. 

“  That  is  right,”  said  he  ;  “  and  now  I  will  explain  to  you 
my  plan.”  Carefully  securing  the  door,  he  then  opened  the 
bundle,  supposed  to  contain  law  papers  and  documents,  and 
displayed  to  her  astonished  gaze  a  full  suit  of  boy’s  clothes, 
well  worn. 

“  There,”  said  he,  “  I  judged  these  would  fit  Myrtie  ;  and, 
as  my  errand-boy  is  the  same  size,  she  can  pass  out  with  me 
in  the  evening,  without  suspicion.  To  carry  away  as  large  a 
bundle  as  I  brought,  you  must  roll  up  a  suit  of  her  clothes, 
for  her  use  afterwards ;  these  you  will  conceal  very  carefully 
till  this  evening,  when  I  shall  make  an  excuse  to  visit  you 
again,  and  Myrtie  must  be  prepared.  I  shall  pretend  to  have 
forgotten  something,  and  shall  send  my  boy  for  it.  Myrtie 
can  easily  personate  the  boy,  and  when  outside  the  gates  a 
messenger  awaits  her,  who  will  convey  her  at  once  to  the 
appointed  spot.  Do  you  approve  this  plan,  Lady  Emilie  ?  ” 

“  Most  heartily,  my  dear  sir !  Ind  I  think  it  can  bo 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


293 


accomplished  without  difficulty.  0,  sir  !  what  do  we  not  owe 
you  for  such  noble  efforts !  ”  > 

“  Do  not  speak  of  that,  I  pray  you.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
justice  and  mercy  of  the  deed,  Lord  De  Yere’s  daughter  is 
entitled  to  any  and  every  service  I  can  render.  But  we  must 
to  business,  or  those  gray  eyes  will  see  something  wrong ;  ” 
and  the  attorney  plied  his  pen  as  assiduously  as  though  noth¬ 
ing  unusual  had  occurred. 

“  We  proceed  slowly,  madam,”  said  he  to  the  superior,  as 
he  was  about  to  leave.  “  Lady  Emilie’s  possessions  are  very 
large,  and,  joined  to  those  of  the  late  Lord  De  Yere,  make  a 
princely  fortune,  which  it  requires  no  inconsiderable  amount 
of  time  to  detail  in  her  will.  I  regret  that  other  business 
occupies  so  much  of  my  time  just  now.” 

“  It  is  unfortunate,”  replied  she ;  “  particularly  as  her 
health  seems  failing  so  rapidly.” 

“  If  it  would  be  agreeable  to  you,”  suggested  he,  “  I  might, 
perhaps,  devote  my  evenings  to  her.  What  are  the  regula¬ 
tions  of  your  house  about  admittance  then  ?  ” 

“  We  have  none  that  would  interfere  with  such  an  arrange¬ 
ment,  as  I  could  easily  give  the  girl  directions  to  admit  you.” 

“  Well,  then,  with  your  approval,  I  will  commence  this 
evening,  and  continue  each  successive  one  till  the  whole  matter 
is  settled.” 

She  nodded  her  acquiescence,  and  he  passed  out,  elated  with 
this  first  success;  while  within,  locked  in  each  other’s  arms, 
trembling  hearts  awaited,  in  almost  breathless  silence,  his 
promised  return. 

Twilight  deepened  into  evening  as  the  attorney,  accompanied 
by  the  lad, —  with  some  trepidation,  it  must  be  confessed, — 

25* 


294 


ANNA  CLAYTON 


again  applied  for  admission  to  those  inaccessible  walls.  A 
jolly,  round-faced  Irish  girl,  whom  he  had  not  seen  before, 
opened  the  gate  for  him. 

“  Where  is  your  mistress  ?  ”  asked  he. 

“  An’  shure,  isn’t  she  in  at  vespers,  an’  the  porthress,  too? 
an’  was  n’t  I  tould  to  let  ye  in,  if  ye  be ’s  the  lawyer  as  comes 
to  see  the  sick  nun  ?  ” 

“  I  am  the  one.  What  is  your  name,  my  good  girl  ?  ” 

“  Johanna,  sir,  at  your  sarvice,”  said  the  girl,  with  a  low 
curtsey. 

“  Well,  Joanna,”  said  he,  slipping  something  into  her  hand, 
“  you  seem  to  be  a  nice  girl.  How  long  will  they  be  in  at 
vespers  ?  ” 

“About  a  half  an  hour  longer,  sir.  Bedad,  he’s  a  rale 
jintleman,  any  how,”  said  she,  glancing  at  her  glittering  palm, 
and  then  at  his  retreating  form,  “  that ’s  thrue  of  him  !  ” 

“  Now  is  the  moment !  ”  whispered  he,  thrusting  his  head 
into  Sister  Agnes’  room.  “  Be  quick,  or  it  will  be  too  late  ! 
I  will  wait  here  for  her.” 

A  smothered  sob  and  kiss,  and,  sooner  than  he  thought  it 
possible,  Myrtle  came  out  in  her  disguise,  and,  without  a 
word,  followed  him  down  stairs.  The  poor  girl  scarcely 
breathed  with  the  intensity  of  her  emotion ;  for  on  this  mo¬ 
ment  she  felt  that  her  destiny  hung. 

“  My  good  Joanna,”  said  the  attorney,  “  I  find  I  have 
left  some  of  my  papers  at  home,  and  am  going  to  send  this 
boy  after  them.  You  will  let  him  in  when  he  returns,  won’t 
you?  ” 

“  Shure  an’  I  will,  yer  honor,”  answered  she,  unbolting  the 
gate,  to  let  him  pass  through. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


295 


“  Now,  mind,  Dick,”  said  he,  calling  after  the  boy,  “  get 
the  ones  I  told  you,  in  the  left-hand  drawer.  That  fellow  is 
so  stupid  !  ”  — 

“  He  oughtcr  be  bright  to  serve  yer  honor,”  said  J oanna, 
pertly. 

“  You  think  so,  do  you?”  answered  he,  laughing.  “Well, 
there ’s  something  for  your  compliment.”  And  he  put  another 
coin  into  her  hand,  which  completed  her  admiration  of  the 
“jintleman.” 

All  this  had  passed  so  quickly,  he  could  scarcely  realize 
that  the  momentous  deed  was  done  !  —  that  Myrtie  was  now 
swiftly  distancing  pursuit,  and  that  both  he  and  Sister  Agnes 
must  prepare  themselves  for  the  denouement.  As  he  returned 
to  her  room,  the  nun’s  calm  and  immovable  face  and  manner 
astonished  him.  That  she  could  so  control  the  hidden  fires 
that  he  knew  were  burning  within  her  breast,  rejoiced  as  well 
as  surprised  him. 

“  This  is  well,  Lady  Emilie !  ”  said  he,  approvingly ;  “  re¬ 
tain  but  your  present  immobility,  and  all  will  be  safe.  She 
is  already  beyond  their  reach !  ” 

“  Thank  God  !  ”  was  all  that  burst  from  her  heart,  in  reply. 

“  Little  as  we  both  feel  inclined  for  business,”  continued 
he,  “  we  must  seem  to  be  engaged  by  it.  I  will  now  proceed 
to  fill  up  these  blanks,  and  then  read  them  to  you  for  correc¬ 
tion.  Remember,  everything  depends  upon  your  prudence 
and  discretion  when  the  crisis  comes !  ” 

Very  earnestly  was  the  legal  gentleman  engaged  in  reading 
aloud  to  the  nun  descriptions  of  certain  boundaries  of  land 
belonging  to  the  De  Yere  estate,  so  that  he  heard  not  the 
superior’s  step  as  she  came  in  and  seated  herself. 


296 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  These,  then,  make  the  sum-total  of  your  possessions,” 
exclaimed  he,  “  which  we  will  now  proceed  to  bequeath,  as 

you  directed,  to - Ah,  madam,  excuse  me !  I  wa3  not 

aware  of  your  presence.  Am  I  encroaching  on  your  stated 
hours  for  rest?  Bless  me!  ”  he  added,  looking  at  his  watch, 
“  how  time  slips  away  when  one  is  busy !  ” 

“  You  was  so  buried  in  your  papers,  that  I  did  not  disturb 
you  when  I  came  in,”  the  superior  answered,  pleasantly. 
“  But,  where  is  My r tie  ?  I  thought  she  was  here,  Agnes  !  ” 

“  Bo  you  mean  the  little  girl  I  saw  when  I  came  in  ?  ” 

* 

asked  tbe  attorney. 

“  The  same.” 

0 

“  I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  her  to  retire  while  we  trans¬ 
acted  our  business,”  said  he. 

“  She  went  in  to  vespers,  I  thought,”  added  Sister  Agnes. 

The  mother,  with  a  troubled  look,  went  out ;  but  soon  re¬ 
turned  with  the  startling  intelligence  that  the  girl  was  no¬ 
where  to  be  found,  and  had  not  been  seen  by  any  of  the  sisters. 

“  What  can  have  happened  to  her?”  cried  the  nun,  with 
assumed  terror.  “  Bo,  my  dear  sir,  lend  your  aid  in  finding 
her !  ”  _ 

“  Certainly  I  will,”  replied  he  ;  “  but  do  not  alarm  yourself 
needlessly  ;  doubtless  the  girl  will  soon  be  found.” 

"*  ’T  is  very  strange  !  ”  muttered  the  superior,  leading  the 
way  to  the  chapel,  which  they  searched  in  vain.  She  did  not 
choose  to  initiate  her  companion  into  the  dark  mysteries  and 
intricate  windings  of  her  great  charnel-house ;  so  she  politely 
excused  his  further  attendance,  and,  with  a  look  of  real  alarm, 
hastened  to  arouse  the  inmates  for  a  more  thorough  search. 

“  We  are  safe  !  ”  whispered  he,  as  he  bade  Lady  Emilie 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


297 


good-night.  “  She  has  not  the  least  suspicion.  Only  maintain 
yourself,  and  all  will  go  right.” 

And  all  did  go  right !  Though  the  alarum’s  shrill  sound 
broke  harshly  on  the  still  morning  air,  call-ing  for  aid  in 
trouble ;  though  its  echo  was  heard  in  deep  tones  of  warning 
from  St.  Augustine's  chime ;  and  though  legions  of  vassals,  in 
every  form  of  disguise,  searched  with  ceaseless  diligence,  and 
held  in  surveillance  every  avenue  and  port  of  the  kingdom, 
innocence  triumphed  over  all ! 

No  sooner  was  Myrtie,  in  her  strange  dress,  outside  the 
convent-gate,  than  a  hand  was  laid  gently  on  her  shoulder, 
and  a  voice  whispered  in  her  ear,  “  Follow  me  !  ”  Trembling 
in  every  limb,  she  followed  the  light,  quick  step  of  her  con¬ 
ductor,  till  they  reached  a  deep  wood,  where  he  silently  placed 
her  in  the  carriage  awaiting  them  ;  and,  seating  himself  be¬ 
side  her,  he  said,  kindly,  “  Keep  up  good  -courage  —  the  worst 
is  over !  ” 

The  spirited  steed,  as  though  conscious  of  his  burden,  bore 
them  swiftly  over  hill  and  dale,  and  before  even  Myrtie’s 
impatient  heart  expected  they  entered  the  suburbs  of  the 
city  where  dwelt  the  protector  Marguerite  had  secured  for  the 
orphans.  The  cautious  guide  here  stopped,  and,  leaving  his 
horse  at  an  obscure  inn,  they  threaded  their  way  carefully  to 
the  house  designated  in  his  directions.  A  long,  weary  hour 
were  they  in  finding  it,  and  not  louder  than  Myrtie’s  heart  did 
the  knocker  resound  as  they  reached  the  door.  A  window 
above  them  was  in  a  few  moments  raised,  in  answer  to  their 


summons. 


298 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  Does  Captain  Glynn  live  here  ?  ”  asked  the  guide,  in  an 
under-tone. 

“Yes— it’s  me.  I’ll  be  right  down,”  said  that  worthy 
individual,  half  suspecting  who  they  were  ;  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  had  thought  of  little  else  since  he  received  Mar¬ 
guerite’s  letter ;  and  every  day  his  interest  deepened  to  see 
the  children  who  had  so  won  his  sister’s  heart. 

In  a  few  moments  he  opened  his  door  to  the  new  comers ; 
but  Myrtie’s  companion,  giving  her  a  bundle,  said, 

“  I  should  much  prefer  to  remain  here  while  this  young  girl 
exchanges  the  garments  she  has  on  for  her  own,  surd  then  I 
will  take  them  and  return  immediately.” 

“  lroung  girl  !  ”  responded  the  host,  with  surprise.  “Ah, 
yes,  I  understand,  now  —  pretty  well  thought  of,  too.  Come 
right  in,  my  dear.” 

Myrtie  gazed  earnestly  into  his  pleasant  face,  while  a  single 
word  hovered  oh  her  lips  —  “  Charlie  !  ” 

“  Not  here,  yet,”  said  he,  cheerfully ;  “  but  you  have  come 
so  safely,  we  ’ll  hope  the  best  for  him.” 

Myrtie  was  in  a  new  world  now,  with  these  kind-hearted 
people  (for  his  wife  had  joined  them).  But  all  their  entreaties 
could  not  prevail  with  her  to  eat  or  sleep  till  Charlie  should 
share  her  happiness.  Poor  Charlie  !  —  where  was  he? 

“  I  tell  you  what,  wife,”  said  the  captain,  as  the  gray  light 
began  to  appear  in  the  east,  “  I  guess  I  ’ll  slip  down  to  the 
*  Orient  ’  and  have  everything  put  in  full  rig.  These  birds  ’ll 
be  caged  again,  mighty  quick,  if  we  don’t  get  ’em  out  of  the 
way.” 

“  But  what  if  the  boy  does  not  come  ?  ”  queried  she. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


299 


“It’ll  be  bad  business,  that!”  said  he;  “but  somehow  I 
think  he  will.” 

Buttoning  up  his  fear-naught,  the  good  sailor  left  the  house, 
intent  on  his  deed  of  mercy.  He  had  proceeded  but  a  few 
steps,  when  he  noticed  a  boy  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  look¬ 
ing  anxiously  around,  as  though  uncertain  what  course  to  take. 

“  Where  awa’  now,  youngster  ?  ”  said  he,  hailing  him. 

“  I ’m  only  trying  to  find  a  house  in  this  street,”  replied 
the  boy,  shrinking  into  the  shadow  of  a  building. 

“  Well,  there’s  a  fleet  of ’em,  you  see,”  laughingly  added  the 
other ;  “  which  ’ll  you  hail  ?  ” 

“  Do  you  know  if  one  Captain  Glynn  lives  in  any  of 
them  ?  ”  asked  the  boy,  taking  courage  from  the  man’s  good¬ 
nature. 

“  Tack  about,  my  lad  !  Yonder ’s  your  harbor ;  and,  if  your 
name’s  Charlie,  there ’s  a  jolly  welcome  for  you,  my  hearty  !  ” 
The  captain  grasped  the  boy’s  hand  warmly  as  he  said  this, 
and  drew  him  towards  his  home. 

“  But,  who  are  you  ?  ”  asked  the  latter,  wonderingly. 

“  Who  am  I  ?  Why,  the  very  cruiser  you  ’re  after,  my 
lad.  My  name’s  Captain  B-ichard  Glynn.  Now,  who  are 
you  ?  ”  he  asked.  But  the  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye  told  that 
he  already  suspected  the  truth. 

“I  am  the  boy  dear  Margery  wrote  you  about.  But  Myr¬ 
tle —  0,  where  is  she?”  exclaimed  Charlie,  as  they  ascended 
the  steps. 

“  Let ’s  go  in  and  see,”  said  the  other,  taking  a  key  from 
his  pocket,  with  which  he  unlocked  the  door. 

Myrtie,  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  excitement,  had  thrown 
herself  upon  the  sofa ;  and,  in  a  half-dreamy  state,  she  heard 


300 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


the  door  open.  Turning  her  head  quickly,  she  sprang,  with 
one  bound,  and  was  locked  in  her  brother’s  arms !  “  Charlie !  ” 
“  My r tie !  ”  was  all  that  each  could  utter. 

Again  and  again  were  the  tears  brushed  from  that  manly, 
weather-beaten  cheek,  ere  Captain  Glynn  could  find  voice  to 
speak. 

“  Now,  my  hearties,”  said  he,  “  we  must  lose  no  time,  or 
those  pirates  ’ll  be  after  you !  Give  ’em  some  breakfast,  wife, 
while  I  am  putting  up  my  traps,  and  in  one  hour  we  ’ll  have 
plenty  of  sea-room.” 

How  proudly  dashed  the  “  Orient  ”  o’er  the  swelling  wave, 
bearing  freight  more  precious  than  Eastern  gems !  How  gently 
rocked  the  cradle  of  the  deep,  as  old  ocean  sang  the  orphans’ 
lullaby !  How  each  shrill,  raging  wind  hushed  its  voice,  as 
on,  still  on,  floated  the  charmed  vessel  to  its  destined  port  — 
“  Mother  and  Home  !  ” 

“  Swift  glides  the  wandering  bark, 

Bearing  beloved  ones  o’er  the  restless  wave  ; 

0  !  let  thy  soft  eye  mark 

Their  course  !  Be  with  them,  Holiest,  guide  and  save  !  ” 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

V 

- “  A  springing  joy, 

A  pleasure  which  no  language  can  express, 

An  ecstacy  that  mothers  only  feel, 

Plays  round  my  heart,  and  brightens  up  my  sorrow, 

Like  gleams  of  sunshine  in  a  lowering  sky.” 

“  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  my  dear  sir,”  quoth  the  physician, 
ominously  shaking  his  head,  “  but  nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
can  save  your  wife ;  and  I  am  free  to  add,  Mr.  Graham,  that 
but  for  you  she  would  long  ago  have  been  in  her  grave.” 

Robert  Graham  leaned  heavily  on  the  mantel,  and  a  deep 
sigh  shook  his  whole  frame.  “  Then  there  is  no  hope  ?  ” 

“  None,  that  I  can  see,”  returned  the  other;  “  she  has  been 
growing  more  feeble  every  year,  and  I  fear  the  crisis  cannot 
be  far  off.  ’T  is  a  sad  case,  —  sad !  sad !  ”  and  the  kind- 
hearted  doctor  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing,  while  Robert  still 
leaned  in  deep  revery. 

“  Let ’s  see !  ”  at  length  said  the  former ;  “  it ’s  some  twelve 
or  thirteen  years  since  that  terrible  event,  is  n’t  it  ?  ” 

“  Twelve  years  last  May,”  answered  Robert,  sadly. 

“  It ’s  a  great  pity  that  justice  cannot  reach  such  knaves,” 
26 


302 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


continued  the  doctor ;  “  my  fingers  have  ached,  many  a  time, 
to  get  hold  of  them.” 

“  They  are  hidden  by  an  impenetrable  wall  which  sets  laws 
at  defiance  everywhere,” -Robert  replied;  “but,  in  this  in¬ 
stance,  we  have  every  reason  to  believe  they  were  aided  by 
that  poor,  misguided  Duncan.” 

“Well,  he  met  with  a  pretty  summary  punishment,  any 
how !  ” 

“  Yes,  he  has  found  one  tribunal  that  cannot  be  averted; 
and  so,  at  last,  will  those,  his  dark  conspirators.” 

“  Well,  I  must  confess,”  said  the  doctor,  “  that  thi3  very 
case  has  done  more  to  make  me  a  sceptic  than  anything  else. 
J  ust  look  at  your  wife  !  A  better  woman  never  breathed,  and 
yet  her  happiness,  her  life  even,  is  sacrificed  to  the  damna¬ 
ble  wickedness  of  such  villains.  Now,  if  there  is  a  God  who 
watches  over  and  takes  care  of  his  own,  why  does  he  suffer 
this  ?  Why  permit  such  villany  to  go  unpunished  ?  ” 

“  We  have  just  noted  the  sad  end  of  one  of  them,”  replied 
Robert,  “  and  who  knows  what  may  yet  befall  the  rest?  Still, 
if  in  this  world  they  prosper,  we  cannot  doubt  the  terrible 
retribution  which  awaits  them  when  the  great  Judge  demands 
innocent  blood  at  their  hands.” 

“  Supposing  it  is  so,  why  should  he  allow  so  much  suffering 
here ,  when,  as  you  believe,  he  has  power  to  prevent  it?  ” 

“  His  reasons  we  know  not  here ;  but,  in  the  light  of  eter¬ 
nity,  we  shall  see  and  admire  the  wisdom  which  has  brought 
us,  even  through  such  dark  ways,  into  his  glorious  presence.” 

“  And  your  wife  feels  thus  ?  ” 

“Much  more  than  I,”  said  Robert,  warmly ;  “the  spirit 
within  her  seems  brightening ;  her  faith  strengthens  and,  with 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


303 


sweet  trust  and  hope,  she  leans  on  Him  who  has  bruised  but 
to  make  her  whole.” 

“There  must  be  something,”  said  the  physician,  thought¬ 
fully,  “  for  such  faith  to  rest  upon.  Mrs.  Graham  has  always 
been  an  enigma  to  me,  and  now  more  so  than  ever.” 

“  Simply,  my  dear  sir,  allow  me  to  say,  because  you  have 
not  learned  that  cure  for  every  ill  —  trust  in  God  !  ” 

“  Trust  in  God !  ”  0,  what  need  had  Robert  Graham  of 
such  faith !  There  lay  Anna,  his  earthly  idol,  sinking  slowly, 
but  surely,  to  her  grave.  And  what  to  him  will  this  world 
be  when  she  is  gone  ?  Trust !  0,  yes,  he  hath  need  of 

perfect  trust,  else  will  he  sink  in  despair !  See  him  now,  as 
on  his  knees  he  bends  in  agony,  crying,  “  Let  but  this  cup 
pass  from  me !  ”  What,  save  heavenly  light,  can  pierce  his 
darkness,  and  teach  him  this  sweet  submission  —  “  Not  my 
will,  but  thine  be  done !  ” 

And  she,  too,  that  sad,  gentle  being,  whom  only  his  love 
has  detained  on  earth  —  needs  she  not  to  draw  from  deep  foun¬ 
tains  of  hope  ?  Pale  she  lies,  but,  as  she  sees  the  dark,  grim 
messenger  gradually  approaching  with  deadly  aim,  what  angel 
of  mercy,  so  like  the  one  she  has  cherished  for  years,  averts  the 
dreaded  shaft,  and,  turning  its  radiant  face  to  hers,  murmurs, 
“  Mother  and  Home !  ”  She  sees  her  own  image  reflected  in 
that  face,  and,  stretching  forth  her  arms,  she  cries,  “  My 
daughter  —  my  own  !  ”  But,  alas !  fond  mother,  ’t  is  only  a 
dream  —  a  vision  of  thy  sickly  imagination  ;  thou  must  awake 
to  find  thy  treasures  still  gone !  Such  a  dream  had  Anna ; 
and,  as  she  told  it  with  glowing  breath  to  her  husband,  he 
wept  that  thus  it  could  not  be. 


V 


304 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


It  was  a  warm,  still  night  in  August.  Not  a  sound  was 
heard ;  even  the  chirp  of  the  cricket  ceased,  and  the  whippoor¬ 
will’s  song  was  lulled  to  rest.  Asheville  was  buried  in  mid¬ 
night  silence.  Scarce  was  this  silence  broken  by  the  light 
steps  of  those  who  now  approached  the  quiet  village,  as  hand 
in  hand  they  came  along  its  public  road,  with  eager  eyes  and 
burning  hearts  scanning  each  dwelling.  At  length,  before 
the  old  stone  mansion  they  stood  —  the  elder,  a  boy,  gazing 
with  deepest  interest  at  its  porch,  its  yard,  and,  finally,  at  the 
great  elm,  whose  overhanging  branches  covered  its  roof. 

“  There,  Myrtie !  ”  whispered  he,  “  I  remember  that  tree; 
this  must  be  the  place  ;  but,  0,  I  dare  not  knock  !  Perhaps 
she  is  dead  !  ” 

The  girl  threw  herself  upon  his  neck.  “  O,  don’t  say  so, 
Charlie  !  ’t  would  break  our  hearts  —  dear,  blessed  mother  !  ” 

How  sweetly  echoed  that  word  in  her  heart,  as,  with  timid, 
trembling  steps,  they  went  up  to  the  porch-door,  and  gently 
raised  the  knocker !  But  Morpheus  reigned  within,  and 
louder  must  be  the  summons  to  open  his  gates.  Again  and 
again,  each  knock  vibrating  fearfully  on  their  hearts,  did  they 
try  to  arouse  the  inmates. 

“  0,  dear !  ”  said  Charlie,  “  I ’m  afraid  nobody  lives  here  ! 
What  shall  we  do  ?  ” 

“  Try  once  more,”  said  Myrtie,  tremblingly ;  and  again  the 
knocker  was  timidly  raised,  while  their  hearts  almost  ceased 
to  beat. 

“  What  was  that  noise?  ”  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  half  waking 
from  her  slumbers. 

“  I  did  n’t  hear  anything,”  replied  her  husband. 

“  I  am  quite  sure  I  did ;  and  it  seems  to  me  I  have  heard 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


305 


it  two  or  three  times  in  my  sleep,”  said  she,  rising' and  going 
to  the  window. 

“  Bless  me  !  here  is  somebody  at  the  door !  —  who  can  it 
be  ?  ” 

This  thoroughly  aroused  her  husband,  and  he  quickly  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  raised  the  window. 

“  What ’s  wanting  ?  ”  he  asked. 

A  whispered  consultation  at  the  door,  and  then  “  Does 
Anna  Clayton  live  here  ?  ”  inquired  a  voice  below. 

“  Anna  Clayton !  who  do  you  mean  ?  ”  said  he,  with  aston¬ 
ishment. 

“  Her  name  used  to  be  Anna  Clayton,”  answered  the  voice, 
more  boldly ;  “  but  afterwards ’t  was  Anna  Duncan.” 

“Wife!  wife!  what  does  this  —  what  can  this  mean?” 
cried  the  old  man,  completely  bewildered  ;  “  here  is  a  boy  and 
girl  inquiring  for  Anna.  O,  my  God  !  if  it  should  be  !  ”  but 
the  sentence  was  left  unfinished,  for,  with  his  first  words,  his 
wife  had  flown  down  stairs.  In  a  moment  he  was  at  her  side, 
and  as  the  light  which  he  held  in  his  hand  fell  upon  the  face 
of  the  young  girl,  he  exclaimed, 

“  My  child  !  the  image  of  my  Anna  !  ” 

What  joyful  greetings,  then,  for  the  young  wanderers ! 
What  open  hearts  to  receive  them  !  but  “  mother  ”  is  first 
upon  their  lips. 

Then  comes  the  story  of  her  sufferings  —  of  the  noble  devo¬ 
tion  of  him  who  is  worthy  to  be  called  their  father,  and  of 
their  lovely  home  near  by.  Charlie  listened  with  a  swelling 
heart;  but  Myrtie  was  so  full  of  joy,  she  could  hear  naught, 
save  that,  when  morning  dawned,  she  should  be  in  her  mother’s 


arms. 


26* 


306 


ANNA  CLAYTON 


Then  Charlie  told  of  their  escape  from  their  hated  prisons ; 
of  dear,  kind  Capt.  Glynn,  who  brought  them  safely  over  to 
New  York,  and  placed  them  in  a  vessel  bound  for  Boston; 
and  how  from  there  they  travelled  through  the  day,  and  at 
night  found  shelter  in  some  comfortable  farm-house,  till  now 
they  had  reached  their  home.  Wonders  ceased  not  when  the 
morning  sun  dawned  on  the  little  group,  so  earnestly  engaged. 
But  who  shall  now  bear  to  that  mother  these  tidings  of  great 
joy  ?  May  not  its  excess  break  the  frail  tenure  which  binds 
her  spirit  to  earth  ? 

Robert  Graham  had  just  risen  from  his  sleepless  couch. 
All  night  had  those  dread  words  sounded  in  his  ear,  —  “no 
hope  —  no  hope!  ”  No  hope  for  her,  the  suffering  victim  of 
popish  barbarity ;  and  no  hope  for  him  whose  oil  of  earth 
must  soon  lie  beneath  the  sod !  The  morning  sun  threw  its 
first  beams  upon  his  kneeling  form,  as  in  secret  anguish  he 
pleaded  for  strength  in  his  hour  of  trial  and  darkness.  Does 
not  that  bright  ray  speak  life  and  hope  into  his  soul  ?  He 
looks  up,  he  sees  the  omen  and  accepts  it,  and  with  a  lighter 
heart  does  he  go  forth  to  duty. 

Scarcely  had  he  descended  to  the  parlor,  when  a  light  knock 
at  the  outer  door  brought  him  thither. 

“  My  master  and  mistress  want  you  to  come  right  over 
there,”  hastily  said  the  messenger. 

“  Why,  Maria,  what  has  happened  ?  Is  anybody  sick  or 
hurt?” 

“  No  sir,  but  they  told  me  not  to  say  anything  —  only  to 
ask  you  to  come  over  quick.” 

‘  ’T  is  very  strange,”  said  he,  as  he  prepared  to  obey  the 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


307 


summons,  at  onoe.  “  What  can  they  want  of  me  at  this  early 
hour  ?  ” 

Then,  looking  in  upon  the  pale  face  of  his  wife,  as  she  still 
slept,  he  quietly  slipped  out  of  the  house,  and  with  rapid  steps 
entered  the  old  mansion.  But  at  its  threshold  he  stopped, 
gazing  with  amazement  on  the  tableau  before  him.  For, 
upon  either  end  of  the  sofa  sat  Squire  Clayton  and  his  wife, 
while  between  them,  affectionately  clasping  a  hand  of  each, 
were  two,  whose  faces,  though  he  had  never  seen  them,  were 
as  some  familiar  dream. 

“  Tell  me,”  cried  he,  agitatedly,  “what  does  all  this  mean? 
Whose  are  these  ?  ” 

“  Can  you  not  suspect,  Robert?”  answered  the  Squire,  with 
a  beaming  face,  as  he  pointed  significantly  to  Myrtie,  whose 
sweet  smile  reflected  so  strongly  her  mother’s. 

“  It  is  her  smile  !  —  But  —  no  —  it  cannot  be !  —  Tell  me — 
0,  tell  me,  I  pray  you  !  ”  and  he  stretched  forth  his  hands,  in 
his  earnestness. 

Charlie  rose,  and,  with  inimitable  sweetness,  taking  one  out¬ 
stretched  hand,  and  placing  Myrtie’s  within  the  qjher,  said, 
“  We  are  your  children,  father !  ” 

0,  with  what  a  strong,  loving  embrace  were  they  gathered 
to  that  noble  heart,  as,  with  more  than  paternal  tenderness,  he 
uttered,  “  My  son  —  my  daughter  !  ” 

“  Take  us  to  our  mother  !  ”  said  Myrtie,  still  clasping  his 
hand. 

“  God  only  knows  how  I  shall  break  this  to  her !  ”  replied 
Mr.  Graham.  “But,  come,  my  children,  —  and  you  too, 
father  and  mother;  ’t is  meet  we  should  all  gather  beneath 
one  roof  to-day.” 


308 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


’T  were  difficult  to  tell  whose  limbs  tottered  most  as  they 
entered  Robert  Graham’s  dwelling  —  those  aged  ones’,  who  had 
been  brought  to  see  the  day  for  which  they  had  so  long 
prayed;  the  little  ocean-tossed  mariners’, now  at  last  safely 
moored,  though  still  tremblingly  murmuring  “  mother  and 
home ;  ”  or  the  fond  husband’s,  with  every  thought,  in  this 
great  moment,  centering  on  the  fearful  joy  thus  brought  to 
one  dearer  than  all. 

“  Has  my  wife  yet  waked,  Susan  ?  ”  asked  he. 

“Yes  —  sir  —  no — sir,”  answered  the  housekeeper,  ab¬ 
stractedly,  gazing  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  strange  look. 

“  0,  I  forgot,  Susan !  ”  added  Mr.  Graham,  with  a  smile. 
“  You  must  share  our  joy;  these  are  the  little  ones  you  used 
to  tend.” 

“  I  knew  it  —  I  knew  it  !  ”  exclaimed  she,  hugging  them 
alternately.  “  ’T  is  the  same  face  little  Charlie  used  to  wear, 
—  and  the  baby  too  !  How  they ’ve  grown !  0,  my  mistress 
will  die  for  joy !  ”  and  the  faithful  girl  was  almost  beside 
herself  with  delight. 

Burdened  with  the  joyful  mission,  Robert  Graham  sought 
his  wife’s  apartment.  How  strangely  bright  everything 
seemed  to  him  now !  Even  Anna’s  face  glowed  with  new 
light  as  she  welcomed  him  with  a  cheerful  smile.  “  What, 
up  and  dressed  so  soon!”  said  he.  “You  are  certainly 
stronger,  Anna.” 

“  I  have  rarely  enjoyed  such  sleep  as  I  did  last  night,”  she 
replied ;  “  and  this,  together  with  those  bitters  the  doctor  left 
me,  have  given  me  rather  an  unnatural  strength,  I  think.” 

“  I  am  thankful,  dearest ;  for  you  need  it  all.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


309 


She  looked  up  with  surprise  into  his  face.  “  What  is  it, 
Robert  ?  ”  said  she.  “  What  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  I  mean,”  replied  he,  unable  to  control  his  agitation, 
“that  joy  such  as  she  dreams  not  of  awaits  my  beloved 
wife !  ” 

“  Surely,  Robert,”  and  she  grasped  his  arm,  convulsively, 
“you  do  not  mean  —  you  have  not  heard  —  ” 

“No,  dearest,  I  have  heard  nothing,  but  I  have  seen 
them  !  —  seen  your  darling  children,  Anna  !  —  and  they  are 
now  under  this  roof,  waiting  for  a  mother’s  blessing  !  ” 

“  Where  —  0,  where !  ”  cried  she,  wildly  rushing  to  the 
door ;  but  Robert  touched  the  bell,  and  in  an  instant  two 
light  forms  sprang  into  their  mother’s  arms ! 

Is  there  aught  of  earth  in  a  scene  like  this  ?  —  Rather,  are 
not  angels  encircling  the  little  group,  breathing  heaven’s  sweet 
incense  upon  them,  and  setting  its  glorious  seal  on  this  sacred 
reunion  of  hearts  ? 


* 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

w- 

“  Joy  never  feasts  so  high 
As  when  the  first  course  is  of  misery.” 


Joy!  joy!  all  now  is  joy  in  that  blest  home!  Even-  the 
good  doctor  doubts  no  longer  a  kind  overruling  Providence, 
and  the  Quaker  refers  triumphantly  to  his  spirit’s  prophecy. 
But  what  are  doubts  and  prophecies  now  to  that  happy  house¬ 
hold,  whose  hearts  are  filled  with  gladness  ! .  The  ebbing  tide 
of  life  flows  back  again  to  the  mother’s  breast,  as  she  pillows 
her  head  in  the  loving  arms  of  her  noble  boy,  or  bends  her 
ear  to  catch  the  sweet  tones  of  Myrtie’s  winning  voice  as  she 
fondly  murmurs  “  Mother  !  ” 

As  the  first  tumult  of  joy  subsides,  and  eager  questions  draw 
forth  the  children’s  tale,  what  dark  revelations  are  made  of  a 
plot  so  infamous  that  their  hearts  quake  with  horror  !  Mar¬ 
guerite’s  testimony  was  read  with  glistening  eyes  and  forgiv¬ 
ing  tenderness,  while  over  Lady  Emilie’s  sad  fate  they  wept 
tears  of  heartfelt  sympathy.  Ralph’s  name  became  at  once 
a  household  word  where  Myrtie  dwelt,  and  his  kindness  and 
unbounded  devotion  an  unceasing  theme  of  grateful  remem¬ 
brance.  Father  Ambrose,  too,  was  not  forgotten  —  an  im¬ 
portant  though  unwitting  aid  in  Charlie’s  escape.  The 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


311 


humane  attorney,  the  faithful  guide,  and  last,  though  not 
least,  the  kind-hearted  Captain  Glynn,  each  received  their 
meed  of  praise  from  overflowing  hearts. 

Anna  read  in  secret  the  lines  traced  to  her  by  the  hapless 
nun,  and  no  eye  save  his  who  shared  her  every  thought  was 
permitted  to  see  them.  Thus  breathed  that  noble  spirit  to 
its  gentle  sister : 

“  I  have  wronged  you  deeply,  sweet,  suffering  mother  of  my 
(farling  Myrtle  !  but  till  now  I  knew  it  not.  Heaven  in 
mercy  spared  me  the  guilt  of  receiving  thoje  perjured  vows, 
and  saved  you  from  dishonor.  For  the  sake  of  her  who  has 
so  sweetly  beguiled  two  years  of  my  lonely  lot,  and  who  bears 
away  with  her  all  of  heart  I  have  left,  you  will,  I  know,  for¬ 
give  the  wrong.  I  shall  never  see  your  face  on  earth ;  but 
will  not  the  dear  girl  who  binds  my  soul  to  yours  unite  us 
forever  in  perfect  love  ? 

“  Let  us  deal  gently  with  the  dead  !  His  errors,  though 
great,  are  not  for  us  to  expose.  Father  lei  the  cold  earth 
shroud  them  from  our  hearts  that  we,  too,  may  find  forgive¬ 
ness  at  last.  You  will  soon  hear  from  me  ap^ain ;  and  when 
you  read  my  last  testimony  of  love  for  your  matchless  child, 
will  you  not  breathe  a  prayer  for  the  soul  of  her  who  has 
gone  —  ah,  whither  ?  ” 

“  0,  Popery !  ”  exclaimed  Itobert,  as  he  ceased  reading, 
“  where  will  thy  machinations  end?  No  victims  are  too  noble 
or  exalted  for  thy  ruthless  hand !  ” 

“  Poor  Lady  Emilie !  ”  said  Anna ;  “  she  must  have  endured 
terrible  sufferings.” 

“  No  doubt;  but  could  they  have  been  greater  than  yours, 
Anna  ?  ” 

“  Perhaps  not,”  and  Anna  shuddered ;  “  out  I  have  been 
surrounded  with  sympathy  and  love,  while  in  tne  cold,  solitary 
walls  of  her  cell  what  alleviation  could  there  be  ?  ” 


312 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  One  comfort  she  must  have  now,  though,  since  she  has 
rescued  our  child  from  her  dreadful  fate.” 

“  I  shall  never,  never  forget  her !  ”  fervently  uttered  the 
happy  mother. 


The  village  bell  pealed  forth  joyous  notes  as  from  house 
to  house  the  tidings  quickly  spread  that  the  lost  children 
had  returned.  Friends  and  neighbors  thronged,  with  eager 
sympathy,  to  clasp  their  hands,  and  hear  the  wonderful 
rtory. 

Not  a  heart  was  unmoved  at  the  recital;  deep-swelling 
indignation  burned  in  every  breast  that  such  an  atrocious 
crime  had  been  perpetrated  in  their  midst,  and  left  them  no 
power  for  redress.  Even  Bridget  conceded  to  Mrs.  Lindsey 
that  there  “  might  be  some  bad  praasts,  though  Father 
O’Brady  warn’t  the  likes  of  ’em,  shure.” 

But  at  night,  when  this  day  of  glad  greetings  was  over, 
where  could  happier  hearts  be  found  than  those  gathered  in 
the  no  longer  desolate  home  ?  The  blissful  smile  resting  on 
Anna’s  cheek  told  of  joy  that  had  long  been  a  stranger  there; 
and  her  husband’s  soul  spoke  through  the  beaming  eye  with 
which  he  gazed  on  his  restored  treasure  —  restored  by  scarcely 
less  than  a  miracle !  Bessie  rejoiced  as  truly  in  their  happi¬ 
ness  as  she  wept  in  their  grief;  and  the  whole-souled  Quaker 
craved  no  greater  earthly  good.  The  venerable  father,  too, 
was  there,  relieved  at  last  from  the  dread  consequences  of  his 
mistaken  ambition.  But  who  had  hearts  so  light,  spirits  so 
free  and  joyous,  as  the  unprisoned  captives  ?  “  Mother  and 

Home  ”  was  to  them  no  longer  a  beautiful  vision,  as  they 
revelled  in  the  bright,  sweet  reality  of  their  dreams.  Bo  not 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


313 


such  moments  well-nigh  efface  the  past,  as  hope  gilds  with  its 
own  radiant  beams  a  happy  future? 

“  Come,  children,”  said  Squire  Clayton,  as  the  evening 
closed,  “  we  must  let  our  little  travellers  seek  the  rest  they 
so  much  need.  Can  we  separate  without  blessing  the  glorious 
Giver  for  this  our  deep,  unutterable  joy?” 

Then,  as  every  knee  bent  responsive,  his  soul  broke  forth  in 
strains  of  thanksgiving  and  praise,  rapturous  and  heavenly. 
Charlie  and  Myrtie  looked  on  in  wonder.  They  knelt  as  did 
the  rest ;  but  where  was  the  crucifix,  where  the  formula  to 
which  they  were  accustomed  ?  Myrtie  gently  took  from  her 
bosom  the  rosary  and  cross  which  she  always  wore,  and  com¬ 
menced  her  usual  devotions ;  but  Charlie  listened  with  awe  to 
those  deep  spirit-breathings,  and  forgot  all  else  in  this  first 
prayer  that  ever  reached  his  ear. 

*•  Dear  mother,”  said  Myrtie,  when  they  were  alone,  “  I 
did  n’t  see  any  of  you  pray  to-night.” 

“  Did  n’t  see  us  pray,  darling  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“Why,  where  was  your  rosary,  mother?  ” 

A  tear  dimmed  Anna’s  eye  as  she  gently  replied,  “  I  fear 
my  daughter  has  been  taught  to  regard  only  the  form  of 
prayer.  We  do  not  believe  in  such  worship  as  you  have  been 
accustomed  to,  Myrtie.” 

“  I  noticed  grandfather  did  n’t  pray  to  the  Holy  Virgin,  as 
we  do,  but  it  seemed  strange  to  me.  —  Surely  you  do, 
mother  ?  ” 

“  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  pollute  my  lips  with  such 
blasphemy,  Myrtie !  ” 

“  Why,  mother,  you  frighten  me  !  Who  do  you  pray  to?  ” 

“  To  that  God  who  alone  sustained  me  when  bereaved  of 

27 


314 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


you,  my  darling,  and  who  is  infinitely  precious  to  every  child 
of  sorrow  and  want.” 

Myrtie  looked  with  surprise  and  admiration  at  her  mother’s 
beautiful  face,  lighted  up  with  holy  fervor. 

“  And  don’t  you  say  mass,  mother?  ” 

“No!  ” 

“  Nor  matins,  nor  vespers  ?  ” 

“  No,  my  dear  child ;  we  abjure  all  these  worse  than  sense¬ 
less  forms,  and  cling  with  simple,  earnest  faith  to  the  cross  of 
him  who  died  to  save  our  souls.” 

“  Who  was  that,  mother?  ” 

“  Jesus,  our  only  Saviour.  Can  it  be  that  my  children 
have  yet  to  learn  that  precious  name  ?  ”  and  the  mother 
bowed  her  head  and  wept. 

“  Forgive  me,  dear  mother !  ”  said  Myrtie,  throwing  her 
arms  about  her  neck;.  “I  did  not  mean  to  cause  you  such 
tears.  I  am  sure  whatever  you  believe  must  be  right ;  only 
it  seems  so  strange  to  me.” 

And  strange  was  it,  both  to  Charlie  and  Myrtie,  to  witness 
such  simple,  unobtrusive  piety,  so  strikingly  contrasted  with 
the  noisy,  unmeaning  ceremonies  of  the  church  in  which  they 
had  been  nurtured.  But  gradually  a  purer  light  shone  upon 
their  souls,  and  ere  long  they  too  knelt  at  the  same  altar  and 
worshipped  the  God  of  their  mother. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  an  event  of  so  great  importance, 
and  so  nearly  concerning  the  honor  and  integrity  of  the 
“  Mother  Church,”  would  be  long  in  reaching  the  ears  of  her 
watchful  emissaries.  In  less  than  a  week  after  the  return  of 
Sir  Charles  Duncan’s  children,  all  the  gossiping  rumor  of  the 


ANNA  CLAYTON.  315 

neighborhood  was  faithfully  transcribed,  and  despatched,  with 
all  possible  speed,  to  the  “  Very  Hev.  13ishop  Percy.”  While 
this  important  message  is  quickly  traversing  its  watery  path, 
the  inmates  of  the  chateau  are  becoming  more  and  more  per¬ 
plexed  at  the  unaccountable  disappearance  of  their  young 
victims.  The  most  severe  scrutiny  of  every  person  connected 
with  the  convent  could  elicit  no  information  concerning 
Myrtie. 

The  gates  had  been  kept  securely  barred,  as  usual ;  no  one 
had  passed  through  them  except  the  lawyer  and  his  errand- 
boy.  He,  of  course,  could  know  nothing  of  the  matter,  being 
at  the  time  deeply  engaged  with  Sister  Agnes.  TIow  or  when 
she  could  have  escaped  their  vigilance,  was  an  unfathomable 
mystery  to  the  lady  superior;  and  if,  perchance,  she  got 
outside  their  walls,  what  unearthly  power  had  she  to  evade  so 
effectually  their  swift-footed  messengers,  who  left  no  spot 
unsearched  through  the  land  ?  Ah !  Lady  Mother,  for  once 
thy  base,  crafty  wiles  have  been  foiled  by  a  power  thou 
knowest  not  of — the  sleepless  guardian  of  innocency  ! 

Father  Ambrose,  though  suffering  severe  penalties  for  the 
indulgence  which  he  was  forced  to  admit  he  had  granted  to 
Charlie,  secretly  rejoiced  in  the  boy’s  escape.  But  Balph,  — 
who  can  describe  the  unselfish  joy  of  his  honest  heart,  when 
told  that  his  birdie  had  flown,  none  knew  where,  and  that 
Charlie  had  gone  too  !  What  though  he  would  no  longer 
look  upon  the  face  he  worshipped,  or  hear  again  the  song  of 
his  lark,  —  was  it  not  better  thus  than  to  see  her  young  life 
pining  away  in  cold  solitude  ? 

“  I  feel  drefful  lonesome  like,”  said  he  to  himself,  one  day, 
as  he  walked  towards  the  deserted  cottage,  and  seated  himself 


316 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


on  its  well-remembered  step.  How  changed  was  even  that 
lonely  spot !  The  little  voice  whose  music  so  charmed  his 
soul  had  fled ;  and  she  who  afone  could  have  sympathized  in 
his  loneliness  lay  beneath  yonder  mound  in  death’s  still  sleep  ! 
The  joyous  notes  of  the  birds  seemed  to  mock  him  with  their 
gladness.  “  Any  how,”  continued  he,  brushing  away  the  tears 
that  would  fall  thick  and  fast,  “  I ’m  mighty  glad  she ’s  got 
away  from  those  ’tarnal  old  critters,  over  there.  She ’s  free 
now,  and  happy  too ;  but  I  reckon  if  she  knowed  how  her  old 
Ralph’s  heart  aches,  she ’d  a  let  him  foller  her.  I  don’  know, 
but  it  seems  to  me  I  can’t  stan’  it  much  longer,  no  how. 
These  old  bones  ’ll  soon  lay  close  to  Margery’s,  yonder,  if  I ’ve 
lost  my  birdie.  Any  how,  I ’m  glad  she ’s  gone ;  ’cause  now 
she  ’ll  have  a  mother  to  love  her.  I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of 
her  poor  Ralph,  who ’d  die  for  her  any  minit !  ” 

Bide  thy  time,  good,  honest  soul !  thou  ’It  ere  long  see 
what  a  place  thou  hast  in  thy  “  birdie’s  ’’  heart. 

A  grim  and  shadowless  messenger,  had,  despite  their  bolts 
and  bars,  entered  the  convent,  and  laid  his  icy  fingers  on 
the  heart  of  a  penitent  sister.  How  that  magic  touch  froze 
every  stream  of  life,  and  left  the  soulless,  clay  like  sculptured 
marble !  Noble  birth,  disappointed  hopes,  and  degraded 
misery,  were  all  forgotten  in  that  breathless  sjumber;  and 
she  who  lay  there  so  cold  and  still  wore  a  peaceful  smile,  as 
though  angels  were  chanting  forth  her  last,  best  deed  on 
earth ! 

The  deep-toned  convent  bell  tolled  the  knell  of  the  departed 
sister ;  friends  gathered  around  her  bier,  and  the  once  proud 
and  haughty  Lady  Emilie  was  borne  to  her  father’s  halls, 


317 


# 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 

beneath  the  sable  pall.  0,  must  her  requiem  be  tuned  by 
the  heartless  wretches  who  have,  drop  by  drop,  distilled  her 
life’s  blood  ! 

After  the  last  sad  rites  had  been  performed,  and  Lady 
Emilie  entombed  beside  her  father,  the  attorney  drew 
Bernaldi  aside,  and,  placing  a  heavy  package  in  his  hand, 
said, 

“  I  was  requested  by  her  whose  obsequies  we  have  just 
attended  to  give  you  the  munificent  sum  of  one  hundred 
guineas,  that  masses  may  be  said  for  the  repose  of  her  soul ; 
and  I  am  further  instructed  by  her  to  say  that  in  three  months 
from  this  day  her  will  is  to  be  opened  and  read  in  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  you  all.” 

The  priest  bowed  low  as  he  pressed  the  golden  weight  in 
his  hands.  “  Sister  Agnes’  word  has.  ever  been  my  law,” 
whined  he,  “  since  she  first  devoted  her  life  to  piety  and 
good  works.” 

The  lawyer  bit  his  lips,  but  said  nothing. 

“  I  well  remember,”  continued  Bernaldi,  “how  trying  it  was 
to  me  to  communicate  to  her  noble  father,  the  late  Lord  De 
Yere,  her  determination  to  shut  out  all  worldly  thoughts  and 
objects  from  her  heart,  and  give  herself  up  to  be  the  bride  of 
heaven.  But  her  pleadings  that  I  would  bear  the  message 
were  not  to  be  resisted.” 

“  And  that  communication  killed  him,”  laconically  added 
Mr.  Stuart. 

“I  know  it  grieved  him  to  the  soul,”  said  the  priest; 
“but  Sister  Agnes  was  inexorable,  and  so  there  was  no 
remedy.” 

“  She  must  have  had  a  very  hard  heart,  then.” 

27* 


I 


318 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“  No,  she  had  not ;  but  her  mind  was  so  filled  with  ecstatic 
enjoyment,  she  lived  above  the  world,  as  though  it  were  not 
worthy  a  thought.  Hers  was,  indeed,  a  bright  example,”  — 
here  Bernaldi’s  emotion  overcame  him,  and  he  pressed  his 
snowy  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  with  well-dissembled  grief. 

The  lawyer  turned  away  with  a  contemptuous  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  but  the  priest  soon  rejoined  him,  and  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  “About  Lady  Emilie’s  will  —  why  did  she  not  wish  it 
read  for  so  long  a  time  ?  ” 

“  I  cannot  tell  you,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Stuart.  “  I  do  not  hold 
myself  responsible  for  Lady  Emilie’s  actions,  or  her  will  either. 
I  am  merely  her  servant  in  this  matter.” 

“You  have  seen  enough,  though,  to  convince  you  that  there 
has  been  no  compulsion  in  her  case  ?  ” 

“  Most  certainly,  my  good  sir  father  priest,”  said  the  other, 
with  a  peculiar  smile.  “  Lady  Emilie  has,  I  know ,  acted 
with  a  free  and  hearty  good-will  in  the  disposal  of  her 
immense  fortune.  But,  ’twill  be  quite  unexpected  to  these 
friends  of  hers,  won’t  it  ?  ”  and  he  touched  the  priest’s  arm 
significantly. 

This  made  certainty  doubly  sure  in  Bernaldi’s  mind ;  and 
he  whispered,  as  he  parted  with  him,  “You  shall  lose  nothing 
by  your  job,  I  promise  you.” 

The  lawyer  bowed,  smilingly,  and  returned  to  his  home  to 
pen  a  letter  “  to  the  guardian  of  Myrtilla  Duncan,  daughter 
of  Sir  Charles  and  Anna  Duncan,  of  Asheville.” 

The  contents  of  that  letter  seemed  to  give  him  peculiar 
satisfaction  ;  for  every  few  moments  he  would  drop  his  pen, 
and,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  exclaim,  “  Noble  deed !  ”  — 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


319 


“just  requital !  ”  —  “  who  could  deserve  it  more  ?  ”  —  “  Lady 
Emilie,  thou  hadst  a  noble  soul !  ”  etc. 

“Great  commotion  there’ll  be  when  that  will  is  read,” 
soliloquized  he.  “  It  will  be  quite  as  well,  I  think,  for  me  to 
improve  the  opportt  aity  to  travel  abroad;  and,  as  Lady 
Emilie’s  generosit>  11  enable  me  to  do  it,  I  think  I  shall.” 


V 


v 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

*  Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasantest  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper.”  Shakspearb. 

“  *T  is  modesty  in  sin  to  practise  every 
Disguise  to  hide  it  from  the  world  ; 

But  creatures  free  from  guilt  affect  the  sun. 

And  hate  the  dark,  because  it  hides  their  innocence.” 

Sir  W%  Davejtant. 

“  ’T  is  passing  strange,”  said  Bernaldi,  glancing  at  the  open 
letter  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  which  he  had  just  read,  “ ’t is 
passing  strange  how  those  children  could  have  escaped  from 
our  hands !  Somebody  outside  must  have  helped  them,  that ’s 
certain.” 

“  A  very  sage  conclusion,  truly,”  replied  Bishop  Percy, 
ironically,  “  when  the  poor  simpletons  never  stepped  beyond 
our  bounds,  and  could  not  have  known  one  road  from  another.” 

“  Well,  whoever  it  was,”  continued  Bernaldi,  “  he  has  man¬ 
aged  to  dodge  us  pretty  well.” 

“  Have  you  any  suspicions  of  the  real  villain  ?  ”  asked  the 
other. 

“  No  ;  I  cannot  say  that  I  have.  I  should  n’t  be  surprised, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


321 


though,  if  that  ltobert  Graham  had  kept  his  spies  about  us 
all  the  time.” 

“  They  must  have  grown  old  iri  his  service,  then,  before 
they  accomplished  anything ;  thirteen  years  is  a  good 
while  to  watch.  No —  I  suspect  the  trouble  lies  nearer  home 
than  that.” 

“  Who  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  I  cannot  help  associating  that  wretch  of  a  Marguerite  with 
this  matter.  She  appeared  very  strange  before  she  died ;  and 
the  boy  was  with  her  the  last  day.” 

“  That  should  n’t  have  been  allowed,”  said  Bernaldi, 
quickly. 

“  Nor  was  it,  with  my  knowledge.  Ralph  managed  to  get 
him  there.” 

“  Ralph  must  be  looked  after.  I  fear  he  knows  more  than 
he  will  confess.  Put  him  to  the  torture,  at  once !  ” 

“  I  really  think  it  would  do  no  good ;  he  is  too  simple  to 
deceive  us.  I  ’ve  cross-questioned  him  so  much,  I  should  have 
detected  any  signs  of  guilt.” 

“  After  all,  our  trouble  is  n’t  so  much  how  they  got  away, 
as  what  we  shall  do  now  they ’ve  escaped  us.” 

“  True,”  replied  the  bishop ;  “  and  I ’m  for  securing  the 
property,  first  of  all.” 

“  How  can  that  be  done  ?  ” 

“  I  confess  I  am  a  little  puzzled,  myself,  to  know  precisely 
how ;  but,  supposing  a  will  were  to  be  found  among  Sir 
Charles  Duncan’s  papers,  giving  to  us  —  I  mean  the  church  — 
the  whole  of  his  property,  —  what  then  ?  ” 

“  Why  —  then  —  I  suppose  we  could  get  it ;  but  it  would 


322 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


be  pretty  difficult  to  try  that  game  now,  the  old  lady  has  been 
dead  so  long.” 

“  I  don’t  know  about  that ;  we  have  got  to  make  a  most 
desperate  effort,  or  we  shall  lose  all.” 

“  Plaguy  curses  those  young  ones  have  been  to  us,  ever 
since  we  had  them  !  I  wish,  now,  we ’d  just  shut  up  their 
mouths,  to  begin  with  !  ”  exclaimed  Bernaldi,  angrily. 

“  It  would  have  been  better,  as  it  has  turned  out,”  said  the 
bishop  ;  “  but  let  us  think  of  something  more  agreeable,  now. 
My  plan  of  a  will  may  succeed  yet.  We  may  reckon  pretty 
surely  on  Lady  Emilie,  from  what  you  have  said.” 

“  No  doubt  of  her,  now.  The  dead  don’t  change  nor  run 
away.  And,  besides,  her  attorney  as  good  as  told  me  it  was 
all  right.  Pretty  sum  we ’ve  got  for  masses,  have  n’t  we  ?  ” 

“  Yes ;  I  suppose  she  did  that  to  give  us  a  foretaste  of 
what’s  coming.  We  must  get  this  Duncan  affair  arranged 
before  her  will  comes  out,  for  we  may  have  a  quarrel  with  her 
heirs.” 

“  When  we  get  possession  of  those  two  immense  estates,” 
said  Bernaldi,  greedily,  “  we  can  afford  to  rest  a  while,  and 
enjoy  life.” 

“  Which  we  will  do,  my  good  Alphonso,”  replied  the 
bishop,  slapping  him  on  the  shoulder. 

The  day  came,  at  last  (as  all  days  will),  when  the  future 
possessor  of  Bavenswood  and  its  princely  revenues  was  to  be 
made  known  to  the  world.  Beyond  the  circle  of  expectants 
little  was  said  or  thought  of  it.  Every  one  supposed  it  would 
fall,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  the  only  brother  of  the  late 
Lord  De  Vere,  who,  for  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years,  had  held 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


323 


the  property  in  trust  for  Lady  Emilie,  should  she  ever  appear 
to  claim  it.  So  quietly  and  discreetly  had  the  attorney,  Mr. 
Stuart,  managed  the  whole  affair,  since  his  first  interview  with 
the  sick  nun  at  the  convent,  that  neither  her  uncle  nor  other 
friends  had  the  most  remote  idea  of  the  disposition  she  had 
made  of  her  fortune.  When,  therefore,  each  notified  guest 
presented  himself,  at  the  appointed  time,  within  the  spacious 
drawing-rooms,  he  wras  received  with  a  stare  and  shrug  by  the 
rest,  as  though  their  own  expectations  were  thereby  propor- 
tionably  lessened.  Still  in  they  came.  But  what  a  motley 
group  !  Here,  an  old  decrepid  servant,  who  had  known  Lady 
Emilie  in  childhood ;  there,  the  faithful  nurse  who  had  tended 
her  footsteps  from  infancy;  near  by,  some  distant  relative, 
who  had  long  been  forgotten  by  all,  save  her  whose  own 
wretchedness  quickened  her  remembrance  of  the  unfortunate. 
Now,  with  the  step  and  mien  of  a  lordly  possessor,  comes  the 
bishop  in  full  canonicals,  and  by  his  side  the  smooth-tongued 
priest,  with  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  as  he  bows  condescend¬ 
ingly  to  all  around  him.  One  and  another  follows,  till  the 
rooms  are  nearly  filled,  and  Bernaldi  begins  to  wonder  whence 
and  why  they  came.  Then,  as  the  notary  makes  his  appear¬ 
ance,  accompanied  by  Lady  Emilie’s  attorney  and  two  or  three 
witnesses,  all  thoughts  are  concentrated  on  the  business  before 
them.  Carefully  arranging  the  papers  on  the  table,  and 
placing  a  large  unsealed  package  before  the  notary,  Mr. 
Stuart,  with  evident  embarrassment,  turned  to  the  expectant 
guests. 

“  I  wish,”  said  he,  “  to  clear  myself  from  every  imputation 
of  connivance  in  this  matter.  That  I  remonstrated  with  her 
whose  will  we  are  about  to  hear  on  her  extraordinary  dis- 


324 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


posal  of  her  vast  possessions,  you  have  her  testimony.  In 
this  note,  written  but  two  days  before  her  death,  she  says  to 
me : 

“  ‘Your  intentions,  I  have  no  doubt,  are  good,  in  trying,  as 
you  do,  to  dissuade  me  from  my  purpose.  But  my  mind  is 
settled  immovably ;  and  I  therefore  beg  your  immediate  atten¬ 
tion  to  the  necessary  forms,  etc.’ 

“  You  will  see  by  this,”  continued  Mr.  Stuart,  “  that  Lady 
Emilie  acted  freely  and  independently ;  and,  though  to  most 
of  you  the  result  will  be  unexpected,  and  perhaps  offensive, 
you  must,  one  and  all,  exonerate  me  from  any  responsibility 
in  the  matter.  Will  you  do  so  ?  ”  asked  he,  pleasantly, 
turning  his  eye  upon  the  bishop  and  Bernaldi.  The  latter 
instantly  rose,  and,  looking  round  very  smilingly,  replied, 

“  I  think  I  can  answer  for  us  all,  my  dear  sir,  that,  what¬ 
ever  may  occur,  you  have  proved  yourself  free  from  blame.” 

“  Do  you  all  thus  judge  me  ?  ”  again  asked  the  lawyer. 
And,  as  every  head  bowed  assent,  the  notary  added,  with  a 
smile, 

“  This  is  rather  an  unusual  proceeding,  I  think.  Lawyers 
are  never  held  responsible  for  their  clients’  actions.” 

“  You  will  see  my  reasons,  presently,”  whispered  Mr.  Stuart, 
“  if  you  will  proceed  with  your  duties.” 

The  notary  then  rose,  and,  midst  breathless  silence,  broke 
the  important  seal.  At  the  same  moment  the  lawyer  touched 
the  bell-cord  near  him,  and  the  summons  was  at  once  answered 
by  the  entrance  of  two  persons,  unknown  to  all  but  the  bishop 
and  priest.  An  involuntary  exclamation  of  surprise  and  rage 
burst  from  their  lips  as  the  two  new  comers  very  quietly 
seated  themselves.  But  the  voice  of  the  notary  recalled 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


325 


their  attention,  as,  with  a  clear,  distinct  enunciation,  he  read 
bequest  after  bequest  to  this,  that  and  the  other  tried  and 
faithful  servant  or  friend,  not  one  of  whom  was  forgotten  by 
the  grateful  daughter  of  Lord  De  Yere.  Then  to  her  uncle, 
the  only  surviving  member  of  the  family,  she  bequeathed  her 
homestead  —  the  mansion  in  which  they  were  assembled,  with 
all  its  dear,  familiar  associations.  Next,  her  father’s  counsel¬ 
lor  and  friend,  as  well  as  her  own,  —  he  who  had  brightened 
the  last  few  days  of  her  life  by  his  unwearied  kindness  and 
sympathy,  —  was  affectionately  remembered  in  the  gift  of  ten 
thousand  pounds. 

“  Now,”  thought  Bernaldi,  “  comes  our  turn !  All  these 
don’t  amount  to  a  third  of  her  wealth.” 

“  All  the  rest  and  residue  of  my  property,”  continued  the 
notary’s  loud  voice  (here  followed  long  and  minute  descrip¬ 
tions),  “  I,  Emilie  De  Yere,  being  of  sound  mind,  do  give  and 
bequeath  to  Myrtilla,  daughter  of  Sir  Charles  and  Anna 
Duncan,  and  her  heirs  forever.” 

“  I  pronounce  that  will  a  forgery  !  ”  screamed  Bernaldi, 
utterly  unable  to  control  his  fury  at  this  astounding  finale. 
“  And  you,  sir,  are  the  perpetrator  of  it !  ”  shaking  his  finger 
at  the  younger  of  the  two  strangers  before  mentioned. 

“  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  sir,”  said  the  notary  ;  “  such  lan¬ 
guage  cannot  be  allowed  here.  This  will  is  too  well  attested 
to  be  disputed.” 

“  And  you ,  you  villain !  ”  continued  Bernaldi,  without 
heeding  the  remark,  as  he  rushed  up  to  the  attorney,  “  you 
knew  it  all,  and  was  accessory  to  it.  You  shall  feel  my  ven¬ 
geance  for  this !  ” 

“  Yes,”  added  the  bishop,  with  a  flashing  eye,  “it  was  all 

28 


326 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


a  contrived  plot  between  them  !  But  they  shall  be  thwarted, 
yet !  ” 

tr  Friends  !  ”  said  the  elder  stranger,  “  thou  hadst  better  be 
a  little  chary  of  thy  charges.  Dost  remember  a  certain  plot 
in  which  thou  and  one  Marguerite  were  so  nearly  concerned? 
And  who  was  ‘  thwarted  ’  there  ?  ” 

“  Confound  that  devilish  old  fool !  ”  whispered  the  bishop, 
drawing  Bernaldi  aside,  “  he  ’ll  blab  the  whole  thing  right 
out  here,  if  we  provoke  him  !  Let ’s  go  home,  and  see  what 
we  can  do  !  ” 

“  I  am  sorry  to  see  thee  leave  us  now,”  said  the  stranger, 
as  they  prepared  to  go ;  “  for  my  friend  Robert,  here,  has  yet 
a  little  business  with  thee.  However,  we  will  call  at  thy  home.” 

“  Concentrated  rage  and  bitterness  are  in  those  men’s 
souls,”  said  Mr.  Stuart,  after  they  had  left.  “  You  and  I 
must  look  out  for  ourselves,  Mr.  Graham.” 

“  I  trust  I  shall  not  be  long  detained  in  their  neighbor¬ 
hood,”  replied  the  other.  “  I  find,  though,  since  my  arrival, 
more  work  than  I  expected;  for  Lady  Duncan’s  death  is  news 
to  me.” 

“  Really,  then,  you  have  another  property  to  secure  for 
your  little  heiress.” 

“  Yes ;  and,  as  guardian  to  the  children,  I  bespeak  your 
counsel  and  immediate  attention  to  the'matter.” 

“  And  I  accept  the  trust  without  hesitation ;  for,  do  you 
know,  I  am  getting  deeply  interested  in  your  little  wards.  I 
feel  half  tempted  to  cross  the  water  to  see  them.” 

“  Nothing  would  give  us  greater  pleasure  than  to  have  you 
accompany  us  home ;  and  I  can  insure  you  a  hearty  welcome 
there.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


327 


“  I  ’ll  go,”  said  Mr.  S-tuart,  warmly ;  “  and,  in  the  mean 
time,  I  will  serve  you  with  my  best  ability  here.” 

Humor’s  thousand  tongues  quickly  spread  the  news  of 
Lady  Emilie’s  will  far  and  near,  greatly  to  the  dismay  of  the 
discomfited  bishop  and  priest ;  for,  now  that  the  existence  of 
Sir  Charles  Duncan’s  children,  became  known,  conjecture  was 
rife  as  to  the  next  occupant  of  Beechgrove.  Thus  far,  since 
Lady  Duncan’s  decease,  it  had  remained  deserted  and  tenant¬ 
less,  and  its  immense  income  had  been  paid  over  to  the  treas¬ 
ury  of  the  holy  church  by  Sir  Charles’  late  attorney,  who 
dared  not  question  Bernaldi’s  pretended  claim.  But  now  the 
time  for  action  had  come ;  and  deep  indeed  and  well-played 
must  be  their  game,  to  meet  the  open  demands  of  truth  and 
equity.  Infuriated  beyond  the  power  of  expression  by  their 
repeated  defeats,  Bernaldi  and  the  bishop  nerved  themselves 
for  a  most  desperate  conflict  over  this  last  hope  —  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  Beechgrove  and  its  fortunes.  But  more  even  than 
this  was  at  issue ;  for,  failing  to  substantiate  their  claims, 
would  not  character,  reputation,  everything  be  lost,  and  their 
long-lived  villany  brought  to  light  ? 

The  morning  after  Lady  Emilie’s  will  had  been  made  known, 
as  Mr.  Markland,  the  late  Sir  Charles’  attorney,  sat  busily 
writing  in  his  office,  three  gentlemen  were  ushered  into  his 
presence,  for  whose  visit  he  was  well  prepared  by  a  long  night’s 
conference  with  Bernaldi.  Advancing  with  great  cordiality, 
he  greeted  Mr.  Stuart,  whom  he  knew,  very  warmly. 

“  Allow  me,”  said  the  latter,  “  to  introduce  my  friends 
Messrs.  Lee  and  Graham,  from  America.  We  have  given  you 
an  early  call  this  morning,”  continued  he,  “  that  the  business 


328 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


which,  detains  them  here  may  be  concluded  as  speedily  as 
possible.” 

“  And  may  I  ask  what  connection  I  have  with  that  busi¬ 
ness?”  said  Mr.  Markland,  blandly. 

“  Certainly  sir ;  we  come  to  prove  to  you  the  right  and 
title  of  certain  heirs  to  the  late  Sir  Charles  Duncan’s  property, 
of  which  we  understand  you  have  the  charge.” 

“  I  hold  Sir  Charles’  papers  in  my  possession  yet ;  but  are 
you  aware  that  he  left  a  will,  Mr.  Stuart  ?  ” 

“  A  will !  Is  it  possible,  Mr.  Markland  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  sir ;  Sir  Charles  left  a  will  to  be  executed  after  his 
mother’s  decease.” 

“And  what  is  the  tenor  of  that  will,  Mr.  Markland?” 

“  You  can  see  fqr  yourself,  if  you  like,”  replied  the 
attorney,  going  to  a  small  closet  and  taking  therefrom  a  paper 
which  he  handed  to  Mr.  Stuart.  The  latter  examined  it  very 
closely,  and  a  strange  expression  rested  upon  his  face  as  he 
returned  it. 

“  Why  has  not  this  will  been  executed  before  now?”  said 
he. 

“A  pressure  of  business  has  prevented  it,”  replied  the 
other ;  “  but  I  am  intending  to  settle  it  forthwith.” 

“  You  have,  of  course,  in  obedience  to  this  instrument, 
handed  over  the  proceeds  to  Father  Bernaldi.” 

“  I  have,  except  a*  sufficient  sum  for  the  maintenance  of 
Lady  Duncan.” 

“How  much,  in  all,  should  you  judge  you  have  paid?  ” 

“  Really,  Mr.  Stuart,  I  don’t  know  that  I  ought  to 
answer  all  your  questions ;  however,  there  is  no  harm  in 
this,  that  I  see.  I  have  his  receipt  for  fifty  thousand  pounds.” 


I 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


329 


“  I  will  not  press  you  further,  Mr.  Markland ;  but,  as  I  am 
acting  for  the  legal  heirs  of  Sir  Charles,  you  will  concede  to 
me  the  right  of  an  investigation  of  his  affairs.” 

“  Certainly,  Mr.  Stuart ;  no  one  can  object  to  that.” 

“  Very  well ;  then  I  will  appoint  a  meeting  here,  if  you 
please,  to-morrow,  at  this  hour,  and  will  trouble  you  to  notify 
all  interested  persons  to  be  present.” 

“  I  will  do  so,  though  I  see  no  reason  for  such  a  meeting.” 

“What  has  that  fellow  got  into  his  head  now?”  said  Mr. 
Markland  to  himself,  after  they  had  left.  “  I  must  go  right 
over  and  see  Father  Iiernaldi  about  it;  there ’s  something  in 
the  wind,  I ’m  afraid  ;  ”  and  more  carefully  than  Mr.  Stuart 
had  done  did  he  examine  every  word  and  line  of  the  will. 
“This  certainly  is  all  straight;  there  can  be  no  mistake  here. 
Pshaw !  he  can’t  do  anything  about  it.” 

28* 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


- “  All  your  attempts 

Shall  fall  on  me  like  brittle  shafts  on  armor, 

That  break  themselves  ;  or  like  waves  against  a  rock, 

That  leave  no  sign  of  their  ridiculous  fury 
But  foam  and  splinters.  My  innocence  like  these 
Shall  stand  triumphant  ;  and  your  malice  servo 
But  for  a  trumpet  to  proclaim  my  conquest. 

Nor  shall  you,  though  you  do  the  worst  fate  can, 

Howe’er  condemn,  affright  an  honest  man  ! 

RALm  worked  away  in  his  garden  that  afternoon  in  silence 
and  sadness.  Years  seemed  to  have  passed  over  him  in  the 
last  few  months,  bending  still  lower  his  ungainly  form,  and 
dragging  more  heavily  his  slow  and  awkward  step.  His  heart 
was  “  clean  gone,”  as  he  said,  “  after  his  birdie,  and  he 
should  n’t  stan’  it  much  longer,  he  knew.”  So  abstracted  was 
he,  as  his  hands  busily  plied  the  spade,  that  he  was  not  aware 
of  the  presence  of  another  person  till  a  hand  was  laid  upon 
liis  arm,  and  a  rough  voice  asked,  “  Is  this  Ralph  Riley,  the 
gardener  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  it ’s  me,”  said  he  ;  “  but  what  do  you  want  ?  ” 

“  You  are  my  prisoner,  sir,”  replied  the  other  ;  “  I  am  an 
officer  of  justice,  and  was  sent  to  arrest  you  for  stealing.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


331 


“  Stealin’ !  ”  cried  Ralph.  “  I  never  stole  nothin’  in  all  my 
life.  Don’t —  0,  don’t  take  me  to  prison  !  ” 

“  You  must  come  —  there ’s  no  help  for  it !  ”  said  the  offi¬ 
cer,  as  he  led  the  poor  frightened  fellow  away,  and  left  a  note 
for  his  master. 

“  Where  are  you  goin’  to  take  me  to  ?  ”  asked  Ralph,  as 
he  tremblingly  obeyed  the  order  to  get  into  the  carriage  which 
was  waiting  for  them. 

“  To  the  person  who  sent  me,”  said  the  other ;  “  I  don’t 
know  any  more  about  it.” 

Friendless,  alone,  and  now  a  criminal,  Ralph  gave  himself 
up  to  despair.  What  matter  was  it  to  him,  he  thought,  what 
became  of  him  1  Rut  soon  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  pris¬ 
oner  was  at  once  conducted  into  a  small,  comfortable  apart¬ 
ment,  he  knew  not  where. 

“  This  an’t  so  bad,  after  all,”  said  he  to  himself,  as  he 
looked  around.  “  I  thought  they  was  goin’  to  put  me  into  a 
dungin.” 

Just  at  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  a  gentleman 
advanced  with  extended  hand  and  cordial  smile.  “  Forgive 
me,  Ralph,”  said  he,  “  that  I  was  obliged  to  play  such  a  trick 
to  get  you  here ;  you  were  so  shut  in  there,  at  the  chateau, 
I  could  not  come  near  you ;  and  Myrtie  told  me  to  find 
you,  and - ” 

“  What !  Myrtie,  my  darlin’,  blessed  birdie  !  ”  cried  Ralph, 
eagerly ;  “  where  is  she  ?  0,  tell  me,  sir,  if  you  can  !  ” 

“  She ’s  safe  and  well,”  said  the  gentleman,  smiling  at 
Ralph’s  earnestness,  “  and  wants  you  to  come  to  her  in  her 
own  home.” 

“  0,  sir !  ”  and  Ralph  fell  on  his  knees,  while  the  tears 


332 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


streamed  down  his  cheeks,  “  I ’d  be  willin’  to  die  the  next 
minit,  if  I  could  only  see  her  sweet  face  once  more !  ” 

“  You  shall  see  her,  Ralph  ;  not  once  only,  but  every  day 
of  your  life,  if  you  will  go  with  me,”  said  Robert  Graham, 
wiping  away  the  tears  which  would  gather  in  his  eyes. 

“  I ’d  go  to  the  eend  o’  this  world,  and  into  the  next,  to  find 
her, —  the  light  o’  this  old  heart !  I  han’t  been  myself  a  minit 
since  she  went  away ;  but  I ’s  mighty  glad  when  she  got  away 
from  them  ugly  faces,  any  how  !  ” 

“  Ralph,  you  have  been  a  good,  kind,  true-hearted  friend  to 
Myrtie ;  and  she  loves  you,  as  she  ought  to.” 

“  Bless  her  eyes,  she ’s  an  angel  an’  nothin’  else  !  I  knew 
the  Blessed  Virgin ’d  help  her  through,  any  how!  but  how’d 
she  git  away?  an’  where’s  Charlie?  an’  how  come  you 
to  know  ’em  ?  ” 

So  Robert  told  him  how  they  escaped  and  got  home ;  and 
how  he,  their  new  father,  had  come  over  to  get  their  property 
away  from  the  wicked  priests ;  and  how  they  had  charged  him 
not  to  return  without  Ralph  ;  and  how  he  had  managed  to  get 
him  arrested,  so  that  Bernaldi  would  n’t  suspect  anything  ;  and 
now  he  was  going  to  take  care  of  him  till  they  could  all  go 
together  to  Myrtie,  where  he  should  always  have  a  home  with 
his  birdie. 

Ralph  laughed  and  cried  all  in  one  breath,  as  Mr.  Graham 
concluded.  “  0  dear,”  said  he,  “I  thought,  little  while  ago, 
I  was  dyin’  o’  grief ;  and  now  I  can’t  stan’  this  no  better ! 
I  shall  die,  I ’m  so  happy,  I  tell  ye  !  ” 

Again  the  three  unwelcome  visitors  presented  themselves  at 
Mr.  Markland’s  office,  at  the  time  appointed  the  preceding 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


333 


day ;  but,  to  their  surprise,  no  one  was  present  except  Bernaldi, 
who  deigned  neither  by  look  nor  gesture  to  notice  their  en¬ 
trance. 

“  I  had  hoped,”  said  Mr.  Stuart,  “  to  find  a  large  number 
present  this  morning.” 

“  There  is  no  necessity  for  it,”  replied  Mr.  Markland. 
“  Father  Bernaldi  is  here  to  represent  the  church  to  which  Sir 
Charles  Duncan  has  bequeathed  his  whole  property,  and  I  act 
as  agent  for  the  testator.  What  more  is  needed  ?  ” 

“Still,”  persisted  Mr.  Stuart,  “I  object  to  proceeding  with¬ 
out  witnesses ;  and,  as  you  have  none,  I  shall  take  the  liberty 
to  introduce  a  few  myself.”  Saying  which,  he  left  the  room, 
and  soon  returned  with  a  dozen  or  more  gentlemen,  most  of 
them  well  known  to  the  lawyer  and  priest. 

“  I  protest  against  this  whole  proceeding,”  exclaimed  the 
latter,  angrily.  “  That  upstart,”  pointing  to  Mr.  Graham, 
“  has  the  audacity,  I  suppose,  to  think  he  can  break  Sir 
Charles’  will.  You  ’ll  find  yourself  in  a  bad  place  soon,  sir, 
let  me  tell  you !  ” 

“  Let  us  attend  to  business,  without  further  parley,”  said 
Mr.  Stuart,  addressing  Mr.  Markland ;  and  then  in  a  concise 
manner  he  presented  the  claims  of  Sir  Charles  Duncan’s 
children  as  his  legal  heirs,  and  demanded  an  immediate  set¬ 
tlement  of  his  property  upon  them. 

“  But  the  will,  Mr.  Stuart !  you  surely  forget  the  will  !  ” 
exclaimed  the  attorney,  with  astonishment. 

“  I  do  not  forget  the  instrument  purporting  to  be  the  will 
of  Sir  Charles  Duncan,”  replied  Mr.  Stuart,  with  terrible 
emphasis ;  “  but  here,  in  the  presence  of  these  witnesses,  I 
pronouuce  that  document  a  forgery  !  ” 


334 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


“Infamous  liar!”  cried  Bernaldi,  purpling  with  rage, 
“  prove  your  words,  if  you  can  !  ” 

“  I  intend  to  do  so,”  coolly  returned  Mr.  Stuart,  “  if  Mr. 
Markland  will  put  a  few  of  these  witnesses  under  oath.” 

“  I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,”  said  the  attorney  ;  “  they 
could  prove  nothing ;  this  is  all  child’s  play.” 

“Just  as  you  please,”  returned  Mr.  Stuart.  “Your  choice 
lies  between  doing  it  here,  or  in  the  public  court-room,  to 
which  one  of  the  gentlemen  present  has  a  summons  for  you 
both.” 

“  What  would  you  have  or  do,  Mr.  Stuart  ?  ”  asked  the 
attorney,  somewhat  mollified  by  the  aspect  of  things. 

“  I  would  have  justice  done  to  the  innocent  and  perse¬ 
cuted  ;  ay,  and  to  the  guilty,  also,”  replied  he,  turning  to  the 
priest. 

“  This  is  insufferable !  ”  exclaimed  Bernaldi,  springing  to 
his  feet.  “  I,  for  one,  will  no  longer  bear  such  insolence !  ” 

“  As  I  said  before,”  returned  Mr.  Stuart,  “  you  can  choose 
whether  you  will  meet  this  charge  here,  fairly,  or  have  it  re¬ 
ferred  to  a  legal  tribunal,  where  there  will  be  no  secrets.” 

Mr.  Markland  drew  Bernaldi  aside,  and,  after  a  few  mo¬ 
ments’  consultation,  proposed  sending  for  Bishop  Percy  and  a 
few  others,  to  which  Mr.  Graham  readily  assented. 

How  like  the  hushed  breath  which  oft  presages  the  coming 
whirlwind  and  storm  was  the  ominous  silence  which  reigned 
in  that  room  as  the  messenger  departed  swiftly  on  his  errand ! 
Even  Bernaldi  felt  its  oppression,  as  his  eye  glanced  uneasily 
around,  to  detect,  if  possible,  some  indications  of  the  ap¬ 
proaching  struggle.  But  tho  face  of  Mr.  Stuart  was  immov¬ 
ably  calm ;  and,  though  a  shade  of  triumph  rested  upon 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


335 


Robert  Graham’s  brow,  he  completely  baffled  the  penetrating 
glance  bestowed  upon  him.  The  suspense  was  at  length  be¬ 
coming  painful,  when,  greatly  to  the  relief  of  all,  steps  were 
heard  ascending  the  stairs,  and  in  a  moment,  throwing  wide 
open  the  door,  his  servant  announced  “  Lis  most  holy  reverence 
the  bishop.”  Bowing  and  smiling  most  obsequiously,  Mr. 
Markland  advanced,  and  apologized  in  no  measured  terms  for 
the  necessity  he  felt  of  summoning  one  so  exalted  to  his  hum¬ 
ble  abode.  Drawing  himself  up,  with  hauteur,  the  bishop  replied, 

“  Your  reasons  are  doubtless  satisfactory,  Mr.  Markland ;  I 
only  regret  that  we  must  tolerate,  even  for  a  few  moments,  the 
presence  of  such  persons !  ”  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  cast  a  wither¬ 
ing  look  of  scorn  and  contempt  upon  Robert  Graham  and  his 
friend  Mr.  Lee.  Paying  not  the  slightest  heed  to  the  re¬ 
mark,  or  the  look  which  accompanied  it,  Mr.  Stuart  inquired 
if  they  were  now  in  readiness  to  proceed. 

“  I  believe  so,”  was  Mr.  Mainland’s  reply. 

“  Then,”  said  Mr.  Stuart,  “  I  will  now  reiterate  my  asser¬ 
tion.  That  will  I  pronounce  a  forgery  —  a  most  infamous  de¬ 
vice,  to  wrest  from  Sir  Charles  Duncan’s  lawful  heirs  his 
immense  property.” 

“  Are  you  aware  of  the  risk  you  incur  by  that  assertion, 
unless  fully  proved?”  asked  Mr.  Markland,  whose  cheek 
paled  at  the  task  before  him. 

“  Most  assuredly  I  am,”  replied  Mr.  Stuart,  contemptuously; 
“but  I  come  prepared  to  prove  the  charge.” 

“Do  it,  if  you  can !  ”  shouted  the  bishop,  forgetting  him¬ 
self  in  his  anger;  “  but  remember,  you  shall  answer  for  this 
hereafter !  ” 

“  I  shall  be  ready  to  do  so,  sir,”  quietly  replied  Mr.  Stuart ; 


336 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


and  then,  turning  to  Mr.  Markland,  he  added,  “  You  will  now 
oblige  me  by  producing  the  instrument  you  call  Sir  Charles’ 
will.” 

Most  reluctantly  was  this  request  complied  with ;  for  those 
guilty,  craven  hearts  quailed  before  the  attorney’s  determined 
glance. 

“  There,”  said  Mr.  Markland,  handing  him  the  document, 
“yoikwill  find  it  difficult,  I  imagine,  to  detect  a  flaw  in  that 
will.  It  cost  Sir  Charles  and  myself  many  days’  labor  to 
draw  it  up  to  his  satisfaction,  and  you  see  it  is  well  attested.” 

“  Where  are  the  witnesses  now  ?  ”  abruptly  inquired  Mr. 
Stuart. 

“  Well,  really,  I  don’t  know  ;  but  I  suppose  they  could  be 
found,  if  necessary,”  replied  Mr.  Markland,  with  some  con¬ 
fusion. 

“  It  will  not  be  necessary,”  said  Mr.  Stuart,  emphatically. 
“  I  see,”  continued  he,  “  that  the  manufacturers’  stamp  upon 
this  paper  is  that  of  Messrs.  Levin  &  Co.  As  those  gentle¬ 
men  are  present,  will  they  oblige  me  by  stepping  forward.” 

Immediately  two  gentlemen,  of  prepossessing  appearance, 
came  towards  the  lawyers. 

“  My  name  is  Levin,”  said  the  eldest,  “  and  this  is  my 
partner,  Mr.  Rogers.” 

Mr.  Markland  bowed  stiffly,  and  Mr.  Stuart  continued, 

“  The  purpose  for  which  I  requested  your  presence  here 
to-day,  gentlemen,  you  will  understand  presently.  First, 
however,  Mr.  Markland  will  please  administer  the  customary 
oath  ;  for  I  wish  to  show  you  that  this  is  no  ‘  child’s  play.’  ” 

“Mr.  Stuart,  this  is  carrying  your  folly  altogether  too  far,” 
exclaimed  the  bishop,  imperiously  ;  “  it  cannot  be  allowed,” 


9 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


337 


“With  all  deference  to  you,  sir,”  replied  the  lawyer,  “  I 
am  employed  by  the  guardian  of  Sir  Charles  Duncan’s  heirs 
to  investigate  his  affairs,  and  obtain  for  them  their  property.” 

“  Which  cannot  be  done  while  that  will  exists,”  returned 
the  other. 

“  But  I  am  prepared  to  prove  that  Sir  Charles  never  made 
that  will.” 

“A  modest  assertion,  truly!  ”  said  the  bishop,  sneeringly ; 
“  pray,  who,  then,  do  you  charge  with  the  forgery  ?  ” 

“  It  were  wise  for  you,  sir,”  significantly  answered  the  law¬ 
yer,  “  not  to  press  that  question  too  earnestly.  My  duty  to 
my  clients  will  be  performed  fearlessly,  and,  if  any  further 
impediments  are  offered  here,  we  shall  refer  the  case  at  once 
to  a  more  public  tribunal.  Decide  now  ;  —  shall  I  proceed 
or  not  ?  ”  and  he  calmly  awaited  their  answer. 

The  bishop,  priest  and  lawyer,  conversed  apart  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  the  latter  replied, 

“We  are  indifferent  to  your  proceedings,  Mr.  Stuart;  we 
do  not  fear  to  meet  you  here  or  elsewhere ;  but,  if  here,  how 
can  the  question  be  satisfactorily  settled  ?  ” 

“  By  the  decision  of  a  majority  of  those  present,  excluding 
all  personally  interested,”  answered  Mr.  Stuart. 

“  But  how  are  we  to  know  they  are  not  already  pledged  to 
your  interests  ?  ”  Bernaldi  asked. 

Mr.  Stuart  cast  a  pitiful  glance  at  the  priest,  and  then, 
turning  to  the  company,  he  said, 

“  If  there  is  one  gentleman  present  who  knows  the  object 
for  which  he  has  been  summoned  here,  I  pray  you  let  it  be 
known.”  But  they  all  averred  that  they  came  in  at  Mr, 
29 


338 


ANNA  CLAYTON 


Stuart’s  request,  to  witness  some  transaction,  of  what  nature 
they  knew  not. 

Bernaldi  gazed  searchingly  into  each  face  in  that  large 
group,  and  was  apparently  satisfied  with  his  scrutiny,  for  he 
said,  “  Let  us  proceed,  then,  and  end  this  foolish  affair  with¬ 
out  delay.  But  your  witnesses  must  be  examined  separ¬ 
ately.” 

“  Certainly,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Stuart,  motioning  Mr.  Rogers 
and  another  gentleman  out  of  the  room.  “Now,  Mr.  Levin,” 
said  he,  as  that  gentleman  was  placed  under  oath,  “  will  you 
examine  the  paper  upon  which  that  will  is  written,  and  tell 
us  if  you  manufactured  it  ?  ” 

Mr.  Levin  examined  it  carefully,  then  held  it  up  to  the 
light  a  moment,  and  answered,  without  hesitation,  “  We  did, 
sir.” 

“  Is  there  no  possibility  of  your  being  mistaken  ?  ” 

“Not  the  slightest,  sir ;  for,  to  prevent  that,  we  have  a  pri¬ 
vate  mark  of  our  own.” 

“  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  business  ?  ” 

“  About  thirty  years.” 

“Have  you  always  used  the  same  stamp  or  private 
mark  ?  ” 

“  Our  paper  has  always  been  stamped  as  you  see  this  is,” 
he  replied,  pointing  to  a  corner  of  the  sheet,  “but  latterly  we 
have  adopted  a  more  private  mark,  by  which  we  can  at  once 
identify  our  own  manufacture.” 

“  Latterly,  did  you  say  ?  How  long  since  you  adopted  it  ?  ” 

“  About  three  months,  as  you  will  see  by  the  date  which  is 
attached  to  the  mark ;”  and  he  held  it  up  so  that  each  one 
could  see, 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


339 


During  this  reply,  Bernaldi  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  with 
dilated  eyes  and  compressed  lips ;  for  he,  too,  saw  the  evi¬ 
dence  of  his  guilt  unmistakably  clear  before  their  eyes. 

“  Now  let  us  hear  what  our  other  witnesses  may  say,”  said 
Mr.  Stuart,  without  noticing  the  priest’s  agitation. 

“  I  shall  question  him  myself!  ”  Mr.  Markland  exclaimed, 
angrily,  as  the  partner  of  Mr.  Levin  appeared. 

“  Do  so,”  replied  Mr.  Stuart. 

“  In  the  first  place,  then,”  said  the  lawyer,  “  I  would  ask 
the  witness  if  there  is  such  a  material  difference  between  one 
bit  of  paper  and  another,  that  he  would  dare  to  identify  it,  if 
the  life  of  a  fellow-being  hung  upon  his  decision.” 

“  I  should  not  dare  to  identify  it,  sir,  unless  I  had  some 
peculiar  reason.” 

“  And  is  there  anything  peculiar,  in  the  paper  of  your  own 
manufacture,  by  which  you  could  distinguish  it  from  any 
other  ?” 

“  There  is,  sir,  in  the  paper  we  have  made  within  the  last 
two  or  three  months.” 

“  What  is  it  ?  ” 

“  A  private  mark,  which  we  agreed  upon,  and  which  we 
have  pressed  into  the  paper,  with  the  date  of  its  adoption.” 

“  Did  this  paper  come  from  your  manufactory  ?  ”  asked 
Mr.  Stuart,  handing  him  the  will. 

He  looked  through  it,  as  his  partner  had  done,  and  then  said, 
“  It  did,  sir ;  and  here  is  the  mark  and  date  of  which  I  spoke.” 

“  How  long  since  that  paper  was  made  ?  ” 

“  It  must  have  been  made  within  three  months.” 

“  What  need  have  we  of  further  evidence  ?  ”  cried  Mr. 
Stuart,  looking  around.  “  Sir  Charles  Duncan  has  been  dead 


340 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


these  twelve  years ;  and  yet,  on  this  sheet  of  paper,  not  three 
months  old,  is  his  will  professed  to  have  been  written !  ” 

“  The  will  is  a  forgery!”  resounded  on  all  sides;  “there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  it.” 

“  Who,  then,  is  the  villain?”  sternly  demanded  he  of  Mr. 
Markland. 

“  Indeed,  Mr.  Stuart,  you  need  n’t  ask  me,”  replied  he, 
angrily ;  “  all  I  know  about  it  is,  I  drew  up  such  a  will  for 
Sir  Charles,  and  supposed  this  was  the  same  one.  It  must  be 
a  copy  of  it.” 

“  Miserable  subterfuge  !  ”  exclaimed  Mr.  Stuart.  “  But  I 
have  neither  time  nor  patience  to  waste  on  you.  Make  resti¬ 
tution  this  moment  to  those  you  have  wronged,  or  I  place  you 
in  the  hands  of  the  law.” 

All  the  dark,  malignant  passions  which  had  been  working 
fearfully  in  Bernaldi’s  heart  during  this  scene  now  burst  forth 
uncontrollably ;  and  he  hurled  the  most  bitter,  deadly  invec¬ 
tives  upon  Robert  Graham,  Mr.  Lee,  and  even  the  bishop 
himself. 

“  He  is  a  madman  !  ”  said  the  latter,  contemptuously ;  “and 
no  wonder,  when  he  has  such  evil  spirits  to  contend  with.” 

The  frantic  priest  vainly  endeavored  to  make  his  escape 
amidst  the  confusion.  Two  strong  arms  restrained  him, 
while  Mr.  Stuart  said,  “  I  have  not  yet  done  with  you,  Sir 
priest.  You  will  just  give  me  a  check  for  fifty  thousand 
pounds,  with  interest  added,  the  sum  Mr.  Markland  has  paid 
you  from  Sir  Charles’  estate  !  ” 

“You  have  got  to  prove  Sir  Charles’  marriage  before  you 
can  get  anything !  ”  retorted  the  priest,  exultingly ;  “  and 
that,  you  know,  you  can’t  do.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


341 


“  Not  so  fast !  ”  cried  Mr.  Stuart.  “  I  have  the  proof 
here,  and  you  may  just  sign  that  check,  or  the  Bow-street 
officers,  who  wait  below,  will  take  you  in  charge  !  And  you, 
Mr.  Markland,  will  transfer  to  me  at  once  all  Sir  Charles’ 
property,  of  whatever  nature.” 

“  Well,  friend,”  said  James  Lee,  who  had  remained  a  silent, 
though  not  an  unmoved  spectator  of  the  whole  scene,  —  and, 
as  he  spoke,  he  patted  familiarly  the  bishop’s  shoulder,  — 
“  what  thinkest  thou  now  ?  Dost  thou  not  see  the  hand  of 
the  great  Avenger  in  all  this  ?  Are  not  the  bitter  tears  of 
anguish  thou  hast  wrung  from  a  mother’s  heart  now  drop¬ 
ping  like  molten  lead  into  thine  own  ?  Verily,  friend,  I  envy 
thee  not  the  vigils  thou  ’It  keep  this  night !  ” 

“  Am  I  to  be  forever  baffled  thus?  ”  cried  Bernaldi,  gnash¬ 
ing  his  teeth  with  rage,  as  he  that  night  made  a  few  hasty 
■preparations  for  flight.  “  Yes !  ”  whispered  conscience,  in  a 
voice  so  clear  he  started  with  fright,  “  so  long  as  innocence 
and  purity  are  your  chosen  victims,  you  have  an  invisible  foe 
to  meet,  whose  shield  is  truth;  against  which  your  barbed 
arrows  rebound  to  your  own  breast !  ” 

29* 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

u  Were  my  whole  life  to  come  one  heap  of  troubles, 

The  pleasure  of  this  moment  would  suffice. 

And  sweeten  all  my  griefs  with  its  remembrance. ” 

Lee’s  “  Mithridates.” 

Gladly  do  we  turn  from  scenes  of  guilt  and  retribution,  to 
the  cheerful  group  gathered  on  the  deck  of  the  “  Orient,” 
that  white-winged  messenger  which,  a  few  months  since,  so 
quickly  sped  on  its  mission  of  love,  bearing  the  mother’s 
gems  to  her  breast.  Now,  though  freighted  with  golden 
treasures  and  joyous  hearts,  the  proud  waves  stay  not  their 
angry  dash  and  roar,  as  when  childhood  breathed  its  pure  and 
holy  calm  along  the  watery  path. 

Captain  Glynn,  who  had  been  pacing  with  rapid  strides  the 
deck  of  the  noble  ship,  his  weather-beaten  face  glowing  with 
pride  and  happiness,  suddenly  stopped  before  the  group. 

“  Now,  friends,”  said  he,  “  my  heart  is  so  full  I  must  make 
a  short  yarn  of  what  I ’m  going  to  say.  Little  did  I  think, 
when  I  promised  Marguerite  to  .take  that  poor  boy  and  girl 
into  my  craft,  what  would  be  the  end  of  it !  But,  here  I 
stand,  the  owner  and  master  of  as  handsome  a  clipper  as  ever 
crossed  the  ocean,  —  the  gift  of  those  children !  —  no  longer  to 
be  called  the  ‘  Orient,’  but,  with  your  leave,”  bowing  to  Mr. 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


343 


Graham,  and,  giving  a  signal  to  the  crew,  “  there ’s  the  name 
of  my  craft.”  Up  rose  the  broad  streamer,  and,  gracefully 
unfolding  to  the  breeze,  displayed,  in  gilded  letters,  “  Charlie 
and  Myrtie.”  A  shout  of  joy  from  the  little  group  gave 
their  welcome  appreciation  of  the  grateful  tribute,  as  the  silken 
pennant  floated  above  them,  its  bright  wings  plumed  for 
homeward  flight ! 

Loud  and  long  rose  Ralph’s  shout  above  all  others,  as 
he  saw  his  “  birdie’s  ”  name  shining  so  brightly  above  him. 
“  What  ’ud  his  ruv’rence  say  now,”  quoth  he,  “  ef  he  know’d 
old  Ralph’s  a-sailin’  under  that  flag,  and  he  thinkin’  all  the 
time  I ’s  in  prison  !  lie !  he !  he !  ”  chuckled  he,  as  he  groped 
#  his  way  down  to  tell  the  story  to  the  sailors. 

“  Verily,  friend  Robert,”  said  the  Quaker,  wiping  a  tear 
from  his  eye,  “  how  hast  thy  life  changed  since  thou  and  I 
first  met —  yea,  and  mine  also!  ” 

“  Yes,”  replied  Mr.  Graham,  “  and  to  you  I  feel  that  I 
owe  much  of  my  present  happiness.  Your  kind  words  and 
counsel  have  strengthened  me  in  many  a  dark  hour,  when  my 
heart  failed  me.” 

“  Now  all  is  bright  about  thee,”  added  the  other,  “  thou 
must  guard  well  thy  heart,  lest  it  be  satisfied  with  earthly 
good.” 

“  I  will  remember  your  caution,”  said  Robert,  smiling, 
“  for  I  grant  I  am  in  some  danger.” 

“  There  are  others,  if  I  mistake  not,”  remarked  Mr.  Stuart, 
“  who  have  many  of  life’s  changes  to  reflect  upon.  What  think 
you,  for  instance,  of  Rernaldi,  revelling,  but  a  few  months 
since,  in  the  spoils  of  innocence,  and  the  power  to  blight  and 


344 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


crush  whomsoever  he  chose  —  now  forced  to  flee  from  an  out¬ 
raged  and  exasperated  community?  ”i 

“  He  carries  his  base  heart  with  him,”  said  Mr.  Lee ; 
“  from  that  he  cannot  flee.” 

“  No,”  replied  Mr.  Stuart ;  “  and  I  fear  his  wicked  designs 
may  not  always  be  frustrated,  as  in  your  case,  Mr.  Graham.” 

“  Doubtless  he  will  go  about  ‘  seeking  whom  he  may  de¬ 
vour,’ ”  answered  Robert,  with  a  shudder;  “  but  God  grant 
that  neither  he  nor  any  other  Jesuit  may  ever  cross  my  path 
again !  ” 

How  eagerly  did  Ralph  rise  with  each  morning  sun,  and 
stretch  forth  his  neck  to  catch,  perchance,  a  glimpse  of  the 
land  where  his  “  birdie  ”  dwelt !  To  him  the  days  wore 
slowly  away.  “  Seems  to  me,”  said  he,  one  morning,  “  this 
’tarnal  old  hulk  keeps  a-goin’  right  round  one  pint  —  nothin’ 
but  water  to-day,  and  nothin’  but  Water  yesterday,  and  ever 
so  many  days  afore  that.  I  b’leve  the  whole  world ’s  turned 
to  water !  ”  Rut  Ralph’s  suspense  was  soon  relieved.  That 
very  afternoon  one  of  the  crew,  pointing  to  a  long  dark  line 
on  the  horizon,  asked  him  if  he  saw  that. 

“  See  what?  ”  said  he ;  “  that  snaky-lookin’  thing  way  off 
on  top  o’  the  water  ?  ” 

“  Ho  !  ho  !  you  lubber,  don’t  you  know  that ’s  land?  ” 

Ralph  looked  at  the  sailor  in  amazement,  rubbed  his  eyes, 
and  then  looked  again  in  the  direction  he  pointed ;  but  it 
required  more  faith  than  he  possessed  to  connect  that  dark 
object  with  the  land  of  his  dreams.  Yet  still  he  gazed,  and 
gazed,  till  his  eyes  ached  and  his  brain  reeled ;  gradually 
the  dark  Jine  seemed  expanding  and  looming  up  in  the  dis- 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


345 


tancc,  when  the  conviction  suddenly  flashed  upon  his  mind 
that  the  sailor’s  words  were  true. 

“  Hurra!  hurra  !  ”  screamed  he,  in  a  voice  which  brought 
every  soul  on  deck ;  “  there ’s  my  blessed  birdie’s  land  \ 
Seems  to  me  this  old  hulk  ’ll  never  fetch  there,  though.  0, 
dear !  dear  !  I  could  a’most  jump  across,  this  minit !  ” 

But  on,  swiftly  on,  the  buoyant  vessel  glided,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  lialph’s  fears,  while  every  eye  gazed  intently  on  the  still 
distant  shores. 

“  By  to-morrow,”  said  Itobert  Graham,  as  they  retired  to 
their  berths  that  night,  “  we  shall  have  quite  a  distinct  view 
of  the  land and,  with  a  grateful  heart,  he  laid  him  down  to 
sleep  and  dream  of  home. 

But,  all  through  that  livelong  night,  with  straining  eyes, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  peer  through  its  darkness,  sat  the 
honest  old  gardener;  sleep  came  not  near  his  eyelids,  for 
memory  and  hope  were  busily  weaving  their  chains  about  his 
heart.  Anxiously  lie  watched  for  the  first  gray  streak  of 
dawn,  and  when  its  faint  light  revealed  a  boldly-defined  shore, 
even  nearer  than  he  had  dared  to  hope,  his.  joy  knew  no 
bounds.  Shuffling  along  as  fast  as  his  clumsy  feet  would 
carry  him,  he  gave  a  very  decided  knock  at  Itobert  Graham’s 
state-room  door.  “  Mister  Graham  !  ”  said  he,  “  Mister  Gra¬ 
ham  !  we  ’re  a’most  to  ’Mcriky !  ”  Then  seizing  a  great 
dinner-bell  which  lay  on  a  table  near  him,  he  rang  its  loud 
notes'  with  an  unsparing  hand,  causing  the  sleepers  to  spring 
from  their  berths  with  affright. 

“  Verily,  ltalph,”  said  the  Quaker,  coming  on  deck,  “  thou 
art  beside  thyself,  this  morning.  What  aileth  thee  ?  ” 

“  0,  we ’ve  a’most  got  there,  Mr.  Lee.  Seems  to  me  I  can’t 


346 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


stan’  it,  no  way,  till  I  see  my  birdie’s  sweet  face  again  !  ”  and 
off  he  went  to  feast  his  eyes  on  the  land  which  contained  his 
treasure. 


“  The  happiest  home  in  all  Asheville,  save  one,”  said  Mrs. 
Lindsey,  smiling,  as  she  entered  Anna’s  parlor,  one  afternoon, 
and  found  her  seated  lovingly  with  her  children. 

“  No,  Bessie,”  replied  Anna,  “  I  shall  not  admit  even 
your  exception ;  mine  is  the  happiest  home  in  all  the  world  !  ” 

“  And  I ’m  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world,”  cried  Myrtie, 
throwing  back  her  sunny  curls,  and  dimpling  her  face  with  a 
bright  smile. 

“  You  are  the  most  beautiful,  at  least,”  thought  Mrs.  Lind¬ 
sey,  as  she  kissed  the  sweet  mouth  and  gazed  into  the  deep- 
blue  eye  of  the  fair  girl.  Myrtie  was  lovely ;  but  her 
winning  simplicity  was  the  charm  which  drew  all  hearts  to 
her. 

“  I  really  believe  I  am  the  happiest  of  you  all,”  said 
Charlie,  a  noble,  manly  boy  of  fifteen ;  “  but  when  father 
comes,”—-  and  he  looked  roguishly  at  his  mother,  —  “  we  shall 
all  have  to  yield  the  point  to  him.” 

Anna  smiled,  and,  telling  him  to  run  down  to  the  post-office 
and  see  if  there  was  any  news  from  that  father,  she  said  to 
Bessie,  “  It  is  not  so  very  weak  and  foolish,  after  all,  to  pride 
myself  on  such  a  boy  as  that,  —  is  it,  Bessie  ?  ” 

“  Weak  and  foolish !  ”  repeated  Bessie,  her  eyes  suffused 
with  tears ;  “  no,  indeed,  dear  Anna  !  you  have  in  your  children 
all  a  mother’s  heart  could  wish ;  if  anything  could  repay 
your  years  of  suffering,  it  would  be  the  restoration  of  such 
treasures.” 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


347 


“  Here,  mother !  ”  cried  Charlie,  bounding  into  the  room 
with  a  joyful  step,  “  here ’s  a  letter  from  father,  post-marked 
in  Boston ;  now  you  are  glad,  I  know.” 

Anna  quickly  broke  the  seal,  while  Charlie  and  Myrtie 
impatiently  awaited  the  news. 

“  Only  think,”  said  their  mother,  as  she  concluded  reading, 
“  they  have  arrived  in  Boston,  and  will  be  here  nearly  as  soon 
as  this  letter  —  this  very  night,  probably  !  ” 

“  Has  Ralph  come,  too,  mother  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  my  daughter,  and  you  can  hardly  wish  to  see  him 
more  than  I  do.” 

•  “  0,  how  glad,  how  glad  I  am!”  cried  Myrtie,  clapping 
her  hands  for  joy.  “  Dear,  good  Ralph !  he  shall  always  live 
with  me  now !  ”  - 

“  And,  besides  Ralph,”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  “  there ’s  Mr. 
Stuart  and  his  wife,  and  Captain  Glynn  and  his  wife,  all  your 
friends,  my  children  —  I  might  say,  your  deliverers  !  ” 

“  Yes,”  said  Charlie,  “  and  all  the  friends  we  had,  except 
Margery  and  Father  Ambrose.” 

“  And  Sister  Agnes  !  ”  added  Myrtie,  warmly. 

“  Cherish  them  all  with  great  love,”  said  their  mother,  “  for 
our  present  joy  we  owe  to  them.  But  go  now,  my  boy,  and 
gather  in  our  home  circle  to  greet  the  welcome  visitors. 
You,  dear  Bessie,  belong  to  us;  so  you  must  remain  and  let 
your  husband  join  you  here.” 

“  0,  Anna,  my  dearly-cherished  sister  !  ”  exclaimed  Bes¬ 
sie,  “  most  sincerely  do  I  rejoice  with  you  that  your  grief  is 
thus  turned  into  gladness,  and  the  dark  cloud  removed,  as  I 
trust,  forever  from  your  path  !  ” 

The  news  of  the  expected  arrival  had  quickly  spread 


348 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


through  the  village ;  and  long  before  the  travellers  reached 
Robert  Graham’s  house,  they  were  greeted  with  shouts  of 
welcome  along  the  road.  Hand  in  hand  stood  Charlie  and 
Myrtie  at  the  gate,  eagerly  watching  for  the  first  glimpse 
of  faces  they  had  known  only  in  sorrow.  Near  them  the 
happy  wife  and  mother,  with  parted  lips  and  flushed  cheeks, 
waited  to  receive  not  only  a  loved  husband,  but  those  who 
had  guarded  her  best  treasures  when  lost  to  her.  The  group 
around  the  door,  crowned  by  the  white  flowing  locks  of  the 
aged  grandfather,  watched,  with  joyful  sympathy,  for  the 
expected  guests. 

“  Here  they  come !  ”  cried  Myrtie,  as  two  carriages  drove 
rapidly  up  to  the  house ;  and,  unheeding  all  else,  she  flew  to 
the  extended  arms  of  a  rough  being,  who  had  no  eyes  save 
for  her. 

“  Dear,  good  Ralph !  ”  exclaimed  she,  “  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  you !  ” 

“  There  —  ’t  an’t  no  use  —  I  can ’t  say  nothin’ !  ”  said 
Ralph,  choking  with  each  word,  as  he  hugged  her  closely  to 
his  breast.  “Birdie  darlin’  —  darlin’  birdie!”  Then  hold¬ 
ing  out  an  arm  to  Charlie,  he  enclosed  within  that  warm 
embrace  all  his  world.  Not  an  undimmed  eye  looked  upon 
them,  for  all  knew  through  what  suffering  that  strange  friend¬ 
ship  had  been  nurtured,  and  what  devotion  had  bound  these 
young  hearts  to  their  childhood’s  protector. 

“  Children,”  at  length  said  their  mother,  approaching 
them  with  streaming  eyes,  “  let  me,  too,  bless  your  old 
friend ;  for  even  you  cannot  feel  as  I  do  how  much  we  owe 
to  him !  ” 

“  Come,  birdie,  let ’s  go  ’way  sum’mers  —  I  can’t  stan’  this 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


349 


no  longer  !  ”  cried  Ralph,  as  Myrtie’s  mother  poured  forth  in 
warm  terms  her  gratitude  to  him. 

“  Wait  till  Myrtie  has  greeted  her  other  friends,”  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  smiling  kindly  on  him.  “  You  and  she  will  not  be 
parted  again  for  many  a  year,  I  trust.” 

“  I ’d  never  ask  for  nothin’  more  ’n  to  serve  my  birdie 
allers,”  said  he,  wiping  his  eyes,  and  gazing  after  her  fair 
form. 

She,  glad  and  joyous  as  the  birds,  flitted  from  one  to 
another,  warming  each  heart  with  her  sunny  smiles ;  while 
Charlie,  in  a  more  dignified  though  no  less  cordial  manner, 
warmly  welcomed  the  friends  of  his  darker  hours.  Mr. 
Stuart  no  longer  wondered  at  Lady  Emilie’s  enthusiastic  gen¬ 
erosity,  and  Captain  Glynn  felt  that  henceforth  his  “  craft  ” 
would  be  doubly  dear  to  him,  with  its  new  colors. 

“  Come,  wife,”  said  Mr.  Graham,  in  the  midst  of  their  re¬ 
joicings,  “  let  us  give  our  friends  a  seat  under  the  great  elm 
across  the  way.  I ’ve  got  a  little  piece  of  news  reserved  for 
you,  yet.” 

“  For  me  ?  ”  asked  she,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

“Yes,  Anna,  for  you ;  and,  as  it  is  something  very  agree¬ 
able,  I  choose  to  tell  it  in  a  pleasant  spot. — There,  Mr.  Stuart, 
what  do  you  think  of  this?”  he  added,  as  they  grouped  them¬ 
selves  under  the  wdde-spreading  branches. 

“  Delightful !  delightful !  ”  exclaimed  the  lawyer. 

“  But  the  news,  Robert !  ”  said  his  wife;  “  tell  us  the  news, 
now !  ” 

“  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  a  lecture,”  said  he,  laugh¬ 
ingly,  as  their  voices  were  hushed,  and  all  eyes  turned  with 
expectation  to  him,  “  but  I  must  tell  you  that  our  little  Myr- 

30 


350 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


tie,  here,  is  the  richest  heiress  in  all  the  state  —  1  had  almost 
said  the  country  !  ” 

“  How’s  that?”  cried  several  voices  at  once. 

“  Mr.  Stuart,  will  give  you  the  particulars.  I  can  only 
say  that  those  dear  children  who  were  stolen  beneath  this 
very  tree  have  been  restored  not  only  to  their  mother’s 
arms,  but  to  their  rightful  possessions.  And,  though  Charlie’s 
inheritance  is  princely,  Myrtie’s  has  the  addition  of  Lady 
Emilie’s  fortune  !  Thus,  as  on  this  memorable  spot  began, 
so  may  here  forever  end ,  The  Mother’s  Trial/’ 


ANNA  CLAYTON. 


THE  FOLLOWING  ARE  SOME  OF  THE  OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS 


The  story,  as  a  whole,  is  most  graphically  and  powerfully  drawn 
and  is  one  of  the  most  affecting  and  instructive  we  have  ever  read. 
Yet,  as  the  various  scenes,  almost  tragical  at  times,  draw  to  a  conclu¬ 
sion,  light  falls  upon  the  picture,  and  its  painfully  dark  shading  is 
relieved.  Characters  change  places  with  startling  rapidity,  sad  faces 
brighten,  and  Jesuitical  eyes  look  double  vengeance  in  the  dismay  and 
confusion  of  their  defeat.  Throughout  the  work  there  is  a  vitality  and 
strength,  a  freedom  from  all  flippancy  and  trifling,  a  purity  of  senti¬ 
ment  and  a  sober  earnestness  of  purpose,  which  give  it  a  power  over 
the  sympathies,  and  an  intrinsic  and  permanent  worth,  far  beyond  any 
moral  tale  with  which  we  are  acquainted.  —  Barre  Gazette. 

Its  high  literary  character,  and  the  peculiar  features  of  the  plot,  un¬ 
folding  scenes  of  “  real  life,”  and  of  affecting  and  even  terrible  interest, 
will  impress  every  one  who  enters  upon  the  story.  There  is  enough 
of  the  beautiful,  playful  and  triumphant,  to  relieve  the  dark  shading 
of  the  picture  ;  and  those  who  have  read  the  entire  work  predict  for  it 
a  popularity  which  few  works  of  the  kind  have  ever  enjoyed.  —  Bos¬ 
ton  Journal. 

We  are  led  to  expect  a  work  of  extraordinary  interest,  —  decidedly 
the  best  popular  tale  of  the  season.  We  are  impatient  to  see  the  end 
of  the  story,  and  shall  give  a  more  full  notice  of  the  work  as  soon  as  it 
is  out. —  Boston  Bee. 

A  work  of  uncommon  power,  and  of  exciting  and  absorbing  interest. 
—  Boston  Telegraph. 

It  is  a  novel  founded  on  actual  occurrences,  though  of  a  most  remark¬ 
able  character  :  and  the  scene  is  laid  in  one  of  our  own  New  England 
villages.  It  develops  the  craft  and  the  unscrupulous  means  to  which 


352 


OPINIONS  OP  THE  PRESS. 


Jesuitism  sometimes  resorts  to  accomplish  darling  objects  ;  and  will  be 
likely  to  impress  the  reader  very  strongly  against  that  “  Mystei'y  of 
Iniquity,”  which  has  so  long  been  working  in  darkness  in  the  world, 
and  which  still  works  wherever  it  can  find  opportunity.  The  moral 
tone  of  the  work,  judging  from  such  of  the  proof-pages  as  we  have 
seen,  will  satisfy  the  most  scrupulous  reader.  —  Boston  Evening 
Traveller. 

A  work  of  very  high  order.  The  story  moves  on  with  a  force,  direct¬ 
ness  of  aim,  and  dignified  moral  tone,  which  every  sensible  reader  will 
admire.  There  is  about  it  nothing  flimsy  or  trifling,  no  foolish  gossip, 
no  senseless  and  silly  talk,  thrown  in  to  make  out  a  book.  It  is  too 
earnest  and  business-like  for  such  poor  resorts.  *  *  It  is  such  a 

specimen  of  literary  workmanship  in  the  story  line  as  it  is  refreshing 
to  get  hold  of.  —  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

From  a  partial  examination  of  the  proof-sheets,  we  are  prepared  to 
expect  something  of  extraordinary  interest.  It  is  written  in  a  style  of 
uncommon  beauty  and  force,  and  the  wrork,  in  its  whole  plot  and  execu¬ 
tion,  promises  to  exceed  anything  of  the  kind  with  which  we  are 
acquainted.  —  Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

A  well-conceived  and  finely- written  tale,  of  high  moral  excellence, 
and  useful  tendency.  The  plot  is  exceedingly  attractive,  and  the  style 
of  the  author  is  pure  and  vigorous.  —  Boston  Courier. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  the  publisher  we  have  been  permitted  to 
look  at  the  proof  sheets  of  Anna  Clayton,  and  believe  this  wrork  will 
have  as  large  a  sale  as  the  most  popular  works  of  the  day.  It  is  written 
in  a  graphic,  outspoken  style  ;  the  incidents  are  true  to  nature,  not 
overdrawn,  distorted,  or  feeble.  It  is  not  only  highly  intellectual,  but 
a  work  of  uncommon  and  absorbing  interest.  —  Uncle  Samuel. 

It  is  declared  to  be  a  book,  not  of  fiction,  but  of  facts,  —  things  wrhich 
have  actually  occurred,  —  brought  together  and  arranged  with  skill  in 
a  narrative  form.  Our  present  acquaintance  with  the  character  and 
accomplishments  of  the  writer  leads  us  to  anticipate,  when  we  shall 
have  read  it,  an  entire  concurrence  with  the  strong  recommendations 
of  the  Boston  papers.  —  JVew  York  Independent. 


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OR,  PEN  PAINTINGS  OF  VILLAGE  LIFE. 

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Editorial  opinions  of  “  Oar  Parish .” 

The  book  is  written  with  great  ability,  displays  an  observant  eye, 
and  a  ready  appreciation  of  men  and  things  ;  and  so  true  to  life  are 
many  of  the  sketches,  that  we  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  if 
numbers  are  thought  to  have  sat  for  their  portraits.  —  Traveller. 

It  is  clothed  in  charms  which  but  few  can  resist.  The  writer’s 
name,  whoever  he  or  she  may  be,  will  not  long  remain  behind  the 
scenes.  Such  retirement  and  seclusion  are  impossible.  —  Lawrence 
Sentinel. 

The  style  is  rich,  yet  simple  and  well  managed.  —  Congregation- 
alist. 

This  is  a  work  written  by  one  who  understands  the  department 
of  nature  with  which  he  undertakes  to  do.  —  Christian  Freeman. 

There  is  a  natural  simplicity  and  pathos  running  through  the 
whole  work  which  cannot  fail  of  producing  alternate  smiles  and 
tears.  —  American  Oddfellow. 

The  writer’s  sketches  of  family  scenes  remind  us  of  that  famous 
work  of  Christopher  North,  entitled  “  Lights  and  Shadows  of 
Scottish  Life.”  There  is  the  same  quiet  pathos,  the  same  touches 
of  nature,  the  same  fine  pictures  of  the  workings  of  passion  in 
rude  and  humble  life,  in  both  volumes.  —  Evening  Transcript. 

It  is  a  book  that  cannot  fail  of  having  an  immense  circulation 
and  popularity.  —  Boston  Daily  Bee. 

The  various  motives  that  sway  human  action,  hate,  love,  rival¬ 
ry,  envy,  selfishness,  &c.,  are  well  depicted  in  the  little  miniature 
world  of  a  village  circle.  —  Boston  Atlas. 

NVe  do  not  wonder  at  the  sudden  popularity  which  the  book  has 
attained.  —  Old  Colony  Memorial. 

There  is  an  agreeable  commingling  of  the  grave  and  the  humor¬ 
ous,  of  the  instructive  and  the  entertaining.  —  Puritan  Recorder. 

No  one  can  read  this  book  without  feeling  a  deep  interest  in  its 
incidents  and  character.  “  Our  Parish  ”  is  one  of  the  books  that 
will  be  “talked  about,”  and  therefore  its  reputation  is  safe. — 
Albany  Spectator. 

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